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UNION DOWN 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS 


BY 


SCOTT CAMPBELL. 

7 

^ l 






‘'/EB261894" 

WASH^S-^ 




BOSTON 

Arena Publishing Company 
COPLEY SQUARE 

1893 









Copyrighted 1893 
BY 

Frederick W. Davis 


All rights reserved 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. Two Men i 

II. After Ninety Days . . . . io 

III. The Wiseacre Family ... 18 

IV. The Story 30 

V. The House on the Bluff ... 45 

VI. Margaret Dawson . . . . 57 

VII. Manley Clavering .... 68 

VIII. Father and Son .... 82 

IX. Nancy Brandon . . . . . 91 

X. Mr. Sedgewick Interests Himself . 104 

XI. Mr. Wiseacre Receives an Unexpected 

Guest 118 

XII. Shadows Cast Before . . . 134 

XIII. John Godbold Discovers a Gold Mine 139 

XIV. Fishing 149 

XV. Mr. Sedgewick Makes a Discovery . 162 

XVI. Mr. Sedgewick Receives a Warning 173 

XVII. Currents Turned Awry . . . 18 1 

XVIII. Aboard the Clara . . . . 191 

XIX. A Meeting 198 

XX. Still Waters 207 

XXI. On the Threshold of the Past . 221 

XXII. A Leaf from the Book of Time . 227 

XXIII. Naomi 245 

XXIV. The Man Himself .... 255 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter. page. 

XXV. Manley Clavering Finds His Level 270 

XXVI. The Calm Before the Storm . . 279 

XXVII. A Signal of Distress . . . 290 

XXVIII. Sea and Night 302 

XXIX. “ God Above ! What Has This Man 

Done!” 31 1 

XXX. “ How Are You to Wipe Out the Past 

— Yonder!” 320 

XXXI. The Dove 329 

XXXII. The Turning of the Tide . . . 336 

XXXIII. What Man Will Do for Others . 348 

XXXIV. Conclusion 364 


UNION DOWN 


CHAPTER I. 

TWO MEN. 

On a certain warm sunny day, not so many years ago but 
that the older of the present generation might recall it, were 
it rendered specially memorable by some event of rather 
more recent date than that of their birth or christening, 
there sailed from the port of Hong Kong a clipper ship so 
noble that no honorable and competent underwriter would 
have for a moment thought of characterizing her at Lloyd’s 
inferior to “A i for fourteen years.” Across her huge black 
stern might have been read in glaring white letters : 
Bounding Wave. — Boston. 

Seated alone on her quarter-deck, and gazing moodily at 
the fading line of receding shore, was a man of most melan- 
choly aspect. His features were thin and wasted. His 
complexion had faded to a sickly yellow. His ringed, 
sunken eyes had a glow like that of fever. He was com- 
paratively a young man, and well dressed. 

Now and then he started abruptly from his attitude of 
moody absorption, to more easily sustain a severe spell of 
coughing, so severe that it seemed fairly to rend his ema- 
ciated body ; and which declared plainly enough that, if 
home was his present destination, he was journeying thither 
in the hope only of passing into the unknown from the arms 
of friends and loved ones. 


2 


UNION DOWN 


After these spells the expression of his saddest of sad 
faces would briefly intensify. Often his parched lips were 
moved as if by an inward prayer. Frequently his wasted 
hands were clenched with almost fierce nervousness in his 
lap, much as if the impulse were derived from scarce 
governable dread and apprehension. Yet he did not leave 
his reclining chair of straw, but sat musing, frequently sigh- 
ing, and all the while gazing with piteous intensity at the 
fast fading shore. 

Complacently pacing to and fro amidships was a person 
of entirely different appearance. He was a man in the 
neighborhood of twenty-five, of medium height and erect 
and sturdy build. He was dressed in gray, light material, 
which displayed to advantage his supple, muscular figure. 
His straw hat was carelessly tossed to the back of his 
finely poised head, and his hands thrust with equal uncon- 
cern into the tops of his trousers pockets. In his mouth 
was a cigar, which was no sooner smoked than another was 
lighted ; and, taken altogether as he walked lazily about 
and watched the sailors making trim, he presented the 
appearance .of one quite without a care of the past, the 
present or the future. 

His dark hair hung in short curls about a fair and open 
brow, but was closely clipped behind down to his sturdy 
neck. He was somewhat burned by the tropical sun, yet 
not enough so to mar the clearness of his rich complexion; 
and a pair of handsome brown eyes lighted a face that was 
quite irresistibly winning and attractive. 

Once when the distressful cough of his fellow-passenger 
reached his ears, he glanced from a knot of busy seamen 
to where the invalid was seated, and paused long enough 
from his walk to mutter with a sort of semi-sad interest : 

“Poor devil! he’s playing his last stack of checks. I 
wonder who he is.” 


TWO MEN. 


3 


But instead of going to learn, he resumed his careless 
walk to and fro and up and down amidships, much as if in 
no degree had his equanimity been disturbed. 

Two sailors, in the characteristic blue shirt and anchored 
collar, swaggered slowly aft to stretch a snowy canvas 
awning above the quarter-deck. They ventured a smile as 
they passed him, and received in return a bantering jest. 
There was an affinity between them. 

Not so, however, the invalid. His brief expression of 
satisfaction was followed by a more than ever distressful 
fit of coughing, and the seamen returned forward with half- 
anxious looks upon their grim faces. 

“ Food for the sharks,” muttered one to the other. 

“ Ay ! ” was the reply. “ Davy has a rope ’round him, 
sartin.” 

The sun rose higher and higher in the cloudless sky ; his 
fierce, vertical rays were pelted down hotter and hotter 
upon the blistering deck ; the blue, dancing waters on every 
side looked more than ever cool and refreshing in the 
scorching midday ; and the Bounding Wave, with every 
stitch of canvas set and every sail bellying in the breeze, 
bowled proudly on her homeward cdurse. 

The young man in gray threw the end of his fourth cigar 
over the side, paused long enough to hear it hiss when it 
struck the water and to watch it fall astern upon the waves, 
then turned aft and slowly ascended to the quarter-deck. 

“A hot day, partner,” he remarked, with a genial smile 
at the invalid. “ Do not rise.” 

The expression of anxiety in the sick man’s face softened 
under the other’s agreeable familiarity. 

“ Yes, it is hot, sir,” he replied, in a dry, hollow voice. 
“ The awning, however, affords some protection.” 

“ So it does, for a fact.” 

“As for myself, I enjoy warm weather. I cannot endure 


4 


UNION DOWN. 


cold. We have a long voyage before us — do you go to 
Boston ? ” 

The careless young man broke into the most winning of 
mellow and musical laughs. He was scarce observing 
enough to notice the intense wistfulness which had sounded 
in those last words, and was now revealed in the sick man’s 
earnest eyes. He dropped into a chair and replied with 
the utmost of frank geniality : 

“ Where else can I go, my friend ? We all must go to 
Boston — unless, Deo volente , we all go to the bottom.” 

“ Bottom ! ” came in a gruff but hearty voice from some 
unseen person below. “ Do you think, gentlemen, that the 
Bounding Wave is made of paper? No, no, sirs ! she is 
made of the stanchest timbers and manned by the sturd- 
iest of crews. No bottom for us, gentlemen ; no bottom 
for us ! ” 

“You hear this fellow in the cellarage,” laughingly 
quoted the young man, turning his bright eyes full upon 
the invalid. “ That sounds like Capt. Barr. I imagine he 
would sail his ship into a sea of molten lava, and in full 
faith that she would weather the conditions. Will my 
smoking annoy you ? ” 

The other wondered how even this strong, healthful-look- 
ing man could so persistently make a chimney of himself ; 
yet he drew his chair a little nearer, in order to reply more 
quietly, and with a sort of subdued eagerness : 

“No, sir; indeed, no ! Pray remain here.” Then, with 
an unconscious betrayal of timidity in his faltering speech 
and lustrous dark eyes : “ I asked if you were going to 

Boston, sir. I — I meant to have asked — is your home 
in Boston ? ” 

Profound anxiety sounded in his subdued but earnest 
voice, and now the young man in gray — for they were both 
young men — noticed it. He looked thoughtful for just that 


TWO MEN. 


5 


brief time required to light his cigar and throw away the 
match. 

“ Yes,” he then answered, frankly; “my home is in Bos- 
ton, or rather it is near Boston.” 

“ And — and are you in business there ? ” came the 
query, in little more than a dry, doubtful whisper. 

“ Well, yes,” was the ready reply, with the oddest of 
genial laughs ; “lam interested in a business there — in 
the ivory business, in a small way.” 

And the speaker glanced archly at his earnest hearer, 
and wondered if his indirect reference to the gaming-table 
was appreciated. It evidently was not, for the invalid’s 
grave face did not change, and almost immediately he was 
seized by another violent spell of coughing. 

“You have a lung trouble,” said his companion, with 
genuine compassion. “ I fear that my smoking must annoy 
you. I will go forward.” 

“ No, no ! ” 

The sick man hurried to subdue his affection, and with 
timid eagerness ventured lay a hand upon the other’s 
arm to restrain his rising. 

“ I had much rather you would sit here,” he continued, 
wistfully. “ I assure you that the smoke does not annoy 
me. Pray remain.” 

“ Then I will at least sit more to the leeward of you, 
to appropriate a nautical term,” kindly smiled the other, 
moving his chair. “ I am sorry to observe your 
illness.” 

“You are very kind — very, sir. Yes, I have a lung 
affection. I have had it for a long time. I am going 
home” — his voice dropped even lower and began to trem- 
ble ; “ I am going home only to die, and I fear that I have 
too long delayed my departure from China. I should have 
started sooner, only a duty I could not honorably neglect 


6 


UNION DOWN 


constrained me. Indeed, to tell the truth, I feel that I 
should have waited a few days longer.” 

And the speaker’s moistened eyes left the handsome face 
of his hearer, a face now grown grave in genuine compas- 
sion, and were turned once more toward the misty line of 
receding shore. 

“ In that case you might have been obliged to wait sev- 
eral weeks,” was the gentle rejoinder. “ Ships are not daily 
clearing for America. ” 

“That is true. That is why I departed sooner than I 
really desired. Delays are dangerous to a man in my con- 
dition, and I dared not wait the next vessel, for I am very 
anxious to arrive in Boston. Besides, he said I must 
embark in this if I hoped to reach there.” 

The invalid’s words were hardly addressed to his com- 
panion, but were uttered in a sort of absent manner, as if 
his mind were turned on something and someone far away. 
His hearer made no inquiry as to whom he referred, but sat 
indolently blowing his smoke into the air and watching it 
wafted away. 

For some little time the rather sad silence was unbroken, 
but at length the invalid, who seemed to have been revolving 
some project in mind, turned abruptly and ventured, with 
his former nervous timidity, to say — 

“ May I ask your name, sir ? ” 

“ Raymond,” and the speaker, looking his questioner 
straight in the eye, laughed genially. “Calvin Raymond — 
rather an euphonious one, isn’t it ? ” 

Mr. Raymond’s laugh was quite irresistible, it was so 
frank and mellow and musical, and the sick man, evincing 
much pleasure at the implied friendliness, went so far as to 
join him. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he impuls- 
ively extended his thin hand and replied, feelingly: 

“ I am glad, very glad, to hear you 'speak so warmly. I 


TWO MEN. 


7 


thank you sincerely. You are very frank — let me be 
equally so.” 

“ With me ? ” 

“Yes — if you are willing.” 

He drew his chair so near that he could lay his hand on 
Calvin Raymond’s knee, and gazing earnestly at the face of 
the young stranger, much as if he would read through his 
handsome dark eyes his inmost thoughts, he continued, in 
an earnest undertone : 

“ As you can plainly see, I am in far from good health , 
so far, indeed, that I am frequently in doubt of seeing the 
end of this long voyage. Mr. Raymond, I may possibly 
need the services of a friend, one on whom I wish to feel to 
rely, and to whom I could intrust some messages and per- 
haps a few little tokens of ” — 

“ Zounds, my friend ] ” heartily interrupted Raymond, 
with an encouraging smile ; “ you may be good for years 
to come. Don’t get down in the mouth, you know. That 
is the best way to nourish an illness. You can ward off the 
last gun for a long time, sir, by keeping a stiff upper 
lip.” 

At this very much more earnest than elegant speech of 
his companion, the sick man shook his head and smiled 
sadly. 

“ I am not lacking in courage, my friend,” he said, firmly; 
“ but I know myself too well to be over-sanguine. There 
are grave reasons why I have not left China ere this, but of 
those I will speak at a more favorable opportunity. I am a 
stranger to all aboard this ship, Mr. Raymond, and I have 
very much hoped to meet here some person in whom, 
should occasion suddenly require it, I might feel to safely 
confide. Am I speaking too boldly? Should — should 
anything happen to me” — 

He hesitated, trembling visibly, and Mr. Raymond came 


8 


UNION DOWN 


to his assistance. He laid his hand frankly on the sick 
man’s shoulder and said, warmly : 

“ Should anything happen to you, sir, and you need the 
service of a friend — Pardon me, though! my warmth 
might awaken a feeling of distrust.” 

“ No, no ! indeed, no ! ” 

“Then, sir, if you do require the aid or advice of a 
friend, for which I sincerely hope you may have no occa- 
sion, if you are inclined to me I shall be very willing to do 
for you anything reasonable that may lie in my power.” 

At these words, honestly and cordially spoken, the face 
of the consumptive glowed with gratitude, and he pressed 
Raymond’s handmost affectionately. 

“ Thank you ! thank you ! ” he cried huskily, with moist- 
ening eyes. “ You take a great load from my mind. I am 
much relieved, for I so have feared a sudden termination of 
my disease. Of course I hope for the best, but I accept 
your kindness with a very grateful heart. You are very good ! 
Believe me, sir, you cannot imagine how relieved I feel.” 

“ Good enough ! ” cried Raymond, with that frank and 
winning laugh. “Let’s think no more about it, then, for 
the present. I’ll engage to keep your spirits up until we 
see again the rocky shores and green hills of dear old New 
England. Rather paradoxical that, wasn’t it? Come 
below and join me in a glass of wine. I’ll pledge our 
friendship in a bumper that shall put new life into you. 
Here, take my hand.” 

There was no resisting the genial influence of this young 
man. He was full of power and fairly overflowed with 
careless life and generous impulses. He tossed the end of 
his cigar over the side and gently aided the consumptive to 
his feet. The latter’s emaciated face was fairly trans- 
figured by gratitude and pleasure, as he was tenderly led 
toward the companion-way and aided into the cabin. 


TWO MEN. 


0 


The third mate of the Bounding Wave, who had observed 
the two passengers in conversation, gazed after them until 
they had disappeared below ; then walking slowly aft he 
gruffly addressed the seaman at the wheel : 

“ Go for’ard ! I’ll take her.” 

He glanced at the compass in the binnacle, cast his eyes 
over the trim of the sails, then, grasping the spokes of the 
wheel against which he had leaned, he stared grimly down 
the stairway into the cabin. Calvin Raymond was seated 
with his newly made friend and the captain over a bottle of 
wine. 

The third mate of the Bounding Wave was not a pre- 
possessing person. He was about forty years of age, low 
of stature and with broad rounded shoulders. His reddish 
hair and grizzled beard were unkempt, and the small 
sinister eyes beneath his shaggy brows glittered like those 
of a rat. He was tanned to the color of a mulatto, and his 
weather-beaten face habitually wore the surly expression of 
a man who hates the very world in which he lives. 

As a burst of laughter at some jest from Mr. Raymond 
rose to his ears, he sneered visibly, and the fire in his rest- 
less little eyes seemed to burn more resentfully. 

“ The d — d fools ! ” he growled with beast-like surliness 
through his beard. “Ain’t I as good as them, that I’m 
barred out o’ their fun ? Cuss ’em, I wonder what the two 
landsmen were parleying about, that that shadder o’ death 
seems so mightily eased of a sudden.” 

There is a class of men who, let their condition in life be 
whatsoever it may, are by nature surly, suspicious, jealous, 
resentful and evil. 

John Godbold, the third mate of the Bounding Wave, was 
of this class, 


CHAPTER II. 


AFTER NINETY DAYS. 

Ninety days out from Hong Kong! Ninety long, weari- 
some, monotonous days aboard ship. 

Day after day the same boundless expanse of tossing blue 
waters, the same impenetrable dome of azure sky, relieved 
t now and then by great billows of snow-white clouds, the 
same ceaseless beating of the waves about the ship, the 
same sing-song music of the wind through the shrouds. 
The impressive beauties of the rising and setting sun and 
moon, the turning of the ever-restless sea from dazzling 
gold to glittering silver — all becomes commonplace and 
wearisome. A square rod of meadow land, bright with 
dandelion and daisy, were a more than ever welcome sight 
at the end of those ninety long days. 

Fellow-sailor, only you and I may appreciate the tedium 
of a long homeward voyage. Only you and I have felt that 
restlessness that is born nowhere save aboard a drifting 
ship, when not a welcome breath wafts her onward to loved 
scenes and fond hearts. Only you and I can tell of that 
impatient longing which becomes the torture of the silent 
midnight watch. 

A dead calm on a moonlit, midnight sea ! 

How one’s thoughts turn from the surrounding beauties 
of nature, to wander through the fond though shadowy 
vistas of the past. I live again in a bright winter morning. 
I see again the low roof of an old gray school-house, cov- 

10 


AFTER NINETY DA YS. 


11 


ered by a heavy coating of December’s crystal, and I watch 
the thick smoke rolling out from the narrow-mouthed chim- 
ney and wreathing upward on the clear frosty air. I see 
again the feathery flakes filled in upon the sills of the 
diminutive windows, whose dirty panes are thickly -coated 
by sharp Jack Frost, to the great exclusion of light from 
the roguish young urchins within. Half timidly, as of old, 
I push open the door and hear it grate upon its rusty 
hinges. I see again the rows of narrow desks, with their 
numerous scratches, cuts and pencilings — some my own ; 
and I gaze once more at the faded old blackboard, inscribed 
with a sadly slanted chirography “ 2 times 5 is 10,” and much 
wonder, too, if the errors observable were confined to 
grammatical errors. Yonder sits a white-haired rogue, 
winking slyly at his boon companion in the corner, whose 
mind is drift — but my mind is drifting also, more seriously 
than was his ! 

I am back again aboard the Bounding Wave, ninety days 
out from Hong Kong. 

The friendship between the two passengers had increased 
daily from the date of their acquaintance. Mr. Raymond, 
always genial and jovial, was the life of the after deck; and 
with jest and story and song was untiring in his efforts to 
entertain his companion, and to beget in him a forgetful- 
ness of his pitiable condition. 

The other received these attentions with many and oft- 
repeated expressions of gratitude, and labored to assume a 
cheerfulness that he was far from feeling. But the grip of 
disease upon him was as relentless as it was potent. His 
hours of basking in the warm sunshine of the quarter-deck 
shortened to halves, and from halves to quarters ; until at 
length he was seen no more in his accustomed seat. 

Throughout these days of his illness, Mr. Raymond had 
stood by him like a brother. Day after day he sat reading 


12 


UNION DOWN. 


aloud for the sick man’s amusement, or cheering, by his 
bright talk, the long, tedious hours. No brother could have 
been more tender and devoted, no nurse more gentle and 
attentive, than was this handsome, blithesome young pas- 
senger aboard the Bounding Wave. 

All this had not passed unnoticed ; his untiring patience 
was remarked by all the crew. And surly and suspicious 
John Godbold had even ventured to observe to Capt. Barr 
that “thet ’ere Raymond were wonderful devoted fur a 
stranger ! ” 

But Capt. Barr, with independence quite characteristic 
of an American in his position, sought no man’s confidence, 
and vouchsafed Godbold no reply to his insinuating observ- 
ation. 

So the latter viewed askance the conduct of Calvin 
Raymond, and judged it from the only standpoint of which 
he was capable. Perhaps John Godbold was right, for, 
despite his ignorance, he was naturally a shrewd and 
cunning man. 

Ninety days out from Hong Kong. 

It was a warm Sabbath morning. The sun had barely 
cleared the horizon, and the Bounding Wave, save her gen- 
tle rise and fall upon the long ocean swell, lay motionless 
upon the calm surface of the sea. Th(| sails hung lax from 
the spars ; the flag aloft drooped at the half-mast ; the crew 
moved with unaccustomed quietude about their work, speak- 
ing in subdued tones and glancing now and then with sober 
eyes towards the quarter-deck, deserted by all. 

A solemn stillness reigned throughout the ship. 

Over the port side amidships was extended a long plank, 
over which had been laid a sheet of canvas, and near by a 
large iron shot. 

There could be but one significance to all this — the sick 
passenger was dead. 


AFTER NINETY DAYS . 


13 


A funeral at sea ! 

At eight bells they brought him from below, a senseless 
mould of clay, and placing him upon the waiting plank 
wrapt him in his woven coffin. John Godbold advanced, 
and fixing the heavy shot at the feet of the body, began to 
sew the canvas around the chilled form. The crew stood 
near by, uncovered, motionless and silent. 

How appalling it seemed, that that heartless ball of iron 
should drag to ocean’s depths even a lifeless man, to hold 
him there through eternity. No one knows how far he 
had to fall through the constantly darkening waters, ere he 
reached that last journey’s end ; then to stand erect for- 
ever, or perhaps be swayed here and there by the move- 
ment of the sea ; alone in the midst of an oppressive 
solitude, far from the light and noise of day ; still above 
earth, yet lost to the sunshine, the glitter of the stars, 
and the music of the winds ; isolated from all sem- 
blance or suggestion of humanity; alone at the bottom of 
the sea. 

How infinitely more appalling than the restful grave of 
the country churchyard, near which loving feet occasionally 
tread, above which friendly voices occasionally speak, 
around which the flowers of summer bloom and the birds of 
summer sing, and tfver which the ever-varying dome of 
heaven arches visible ; a grave kissed by the sunshine and 
caressed by the dew. 

Yet, after all, what matters ? Have we not the promise 
of immortality ? Thank God for the assurance that the be- 
all and the end-all are not Here ! that that which is buried 
on land or in the sea is not Us ! 

The cold white hands were tenderly composed, and all 
was covered but the peaceful, pallid face on which the last 
rays of sunlight lingered. 

At a motion from Capt. Barr, John Godbold fell back a 


14 


UNION DOWN. 


few paces, and with bent brows viewed Calvin Raymond 
when he advanced and stood beside the body. 

In a grave, melodious voice the young man read a few 
passages of Scripture, sang sweetly a familiar hymn, and 
said a few words in commendation of the patience and res- 
ignation of the dead man. Then, with lifted head and tear- 
ful eyes, he uttered a brief though fervent prayer. 

John Godbold advanced and sewed the canvas over the 
dead man’s face. At a sign, two of the seamen raised the 
end of the plank. Calvin Raymond laid his hand for the 
last time upon the lifeless form. 

“ I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord : he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, 
and he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” 

He removed his hand. The inanimate white mass slid 
outward and downward. The greedy waters closed above 
it. The concentric circles spread wider and wider. From 
far below the waves a flash of white, a last mute farewell, 
arose — and the dead had disappeared from mortal view 
forever. 

A catspaw of wind, the harbinger of a coming breeze, 
bellied the drooping sails, and the ship, listing a trifle, 
made way. 

Haul in that plank ! Board your main tack ! Run the 
colors to the head ! ” 

There was no irreverence in the captain’s quick, ringing 
orders. Only you who understand the feelings of sailors, 
can appreciate the relief with which they are permitted, in 
the vast solitude of the silent sea, to forget these scenes of 
death. With every stitch of canvas set to catch the 
freshening breeze, the Bounding Wave dashed eagerly on 
her homeward course, leaving far behind her and at the bot- 
tom of the sea all that was mortal of him — for whom some 
loving heart may have been wildly watching and waiting ! 


AFTER NINETY DA YS. 


15 


That same Sabbath evening, a man alone at the helm 
fished from his pocket a small round object, which he studied 
intently. For some little time he examined it busily, and 
once muttered dubiously : 

“ N. ’V.from B. B. Fides et Amor” 

Though the words were beyond his understanding, he 
vaguely grasped their significance, and with a grim smile 
he carefully wrapt the object in a bit of paper, and stowed 
it away again in his filthy pocket. 

“ Now,” muttered he, with evil satisfaction ; “ I’ll trim 
my sails to keep this rakish stranger in hailin’ distance till 
I larn his true colors, and why he laid to so clus to the 
landsman who flew the signal o’ distress ! ” 

The man at the helm was John Godbold. 

The small round object was a heavy gold ring, engraved 
as above upon its inner surface, and which he had sur- 
reptitiously removed from the finger of the dead man, 
when he sewed him in his canvas shroud. 

Land, ho ! 

Up by Minot’s and Boston lights, up between Independ- 
ence and Warren, up again to the quay, proudly with her 
gallant crew and valuable cargo, the Bounding Wave, after 
her long and tireless labor, came again to rest. 

“ Shall you leave us to-day, Mr. Raymond ? ” 

“Yes, Capt. Barr. I must arrange to go to New York 
within a few days.” 

“ Will I not see you again, sir ? ” 

“Yes,” was Mr. Raymond’s reply, with a grave smile. 
“ I wish to ask a slight favor at your hands — merely your 
company in the performance of a not wholly agreeable duty. 
I have to call upon the friends of the poor fellow who died 
during the voyage, and who confided to me the delivery of 
a few little tokens and letters. His relatives reside in the 
suburbs. Will you be my companion on this mission ? ” 


16 


UNION DOWN 


“ I will, indeed,” Capt. Barr answered heartily. “ And 
I am glad you have broached the subject yourself.” 

“ Which leads me to infer that you feared I might not,” 
laughed Raymond, warmly shaking the other’s hand. “ If 
convenient to you, we will make the visit to-morrow. I 
invite myself down here to dine with you, and drink another 
bottle of your excellent wine ; after which ” — 

“ Very good ! ” interrupted Capt. Barr, laughing at the 
genial fellow’s frank impudence. “ Say at noon, then, and 
I will have the bottle on ice. I will expect you.” 

“ By all means have it on ice ! Good-by, then, until 
noon to-morrow,” cried Raymond gaily; and a few minutes 
later he left the ship. 

Having seen his luggage placed upon a cab, he drove at 
once to a first-class hotel and registered. 

The clerk glanced at the name of the stranger guest. 

“ Will you go to your room, Mr. Raymond ? ” 

“ If you please.” 

Alone in his chamber, with the door closed and locked, 
he threw off his outer garments and opened his portman- 
teau. Taking therefrom quite a bundle of written papers, 
he seated himself at the table and spent several hours in 
their perusal. A little later, having returned to the hotel 
office, he inquired of the clerk at what time he could take a 
train for a certain suburban town. After which, he 
absented himself from the house until evening — but he 
did not leave the city. 

The following morning he paid his bill at the hotel, drove 
to the proper depot and purchased a ticket to New York — 
but checked his trunk to Springfield only. 

Capt. Barr was rather surprised that day, when Mr. 
Raymond failed to put in an appearance. But his vague 
suspicions were somewhat dispelled, when, next morning, 
he received from Mr. Raymond in New York a letter plaus- 


AFTER NINETY DA YS. 


17 


ibly explaining his hurried departure, and assuring him 
that the matter mentioned had first been faithfully attended 
to. 

But even this did not quite satisfy Capt. Barr. He went 
so far as to seek out the hotel at which Mr. Raymond had 
quartered, and here he learned from the clerk that the 
young man had indeed spent an entire afternoon in one of 
the near towns. The seaman began to feel that he was not 
justified in his apprehensions, and was wronging his whilom 
genial passenger. He forthwith returned to his ship, and 
let the matter drop. 

Some two weeks later, Calvin Raymond, seated in the 
hotel of a small town in western Massachusetts, read in one 
of the Boston papers the clearing of the clipper ship 
Bounding Wave, Capt. Barr, for San Francisco. 

An eager smile leaped to his rather pale features, and 
throwing aside the paper he sprang to his feet. 

“ A hundred to one, Capt. Barr, that you misjudge me ! ” 
he exclaimed aloud. “ Well, well, my friend, we may meet 
again in the dim and distant future, and you shall ask my 
pardon. Now, then, to hasten to the arms of my stranger 
father ! ” 

And he laughed gaily, glancing in the mirror at his hand- 
some face. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 

It was a royal hill, when viewed from the sandy sidewalk 
of the sandier street. Looking from its summit in the 
month of August, one might see, a good half-mile away, the 
blue waters of Massachusetts Bay ; and, when the day was 
remarkably clear, a long faint line upon the horizon 
indicated where the sandy cape, like a huge bended arm, 
lay low upon the surface of the sea. 

Along the shelving shore, where the wavelets lost their 
motion in a rippling song upon the air, could be discerned 
great patches of bright green thatch, waving in the breeze 
and rolling rhythmical with the blue waters of the bay ; also 
huge isolated rocks, landmarks for generations, yet slowly 
crumbling under the resistless teeth of time. 

Nearer yet was a broad stretch of marshland, dotted by 
tall stacks of brown salt hay, standing like gigantic insects 
upon innumerable legs ; a wide stretch of lowland, inter- 
laced by winding creeks, like huge twisting serpents glisten- 
ing in the sunshine. And nearer yet were dark-green 
meadows, rich with food for the kine, standing with round 
distended sides, and gazing with lazily longing eyes over 
the gray stone-walls at the bounteous cornfields and waving 
seas of yellow grain. While seemingly at one’s feet lay 
the dusty, sandy road, cut deep with ruts and winding away 
toward the heart of the town, the roofs and spires of which 
could be seen a mile or more away. 

18 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 


19 


Within a hundred yards of this hill, from whose summit 
might have been viewed the scene we have imperfectly 
pictured, there stood an old farm-house. It was situated 
somewhat back from the road, and was reached therefrom 
by a low flight of roughly hewn steps, which divided the 
brink of the level lawn by which the house was fronted. 
The lawn was shaded by several small cherry-trees and a 
row of tall poplars, and was some three or four feet above the 
level of the road. The latter, at just this point, boasted of 
but one walk’ for pedestrians, and that was on the opposite 
side from that of the house. 

And what a house this was ! If plumb and level had 
been utilized by its builders, no indications of the fact were 
now apparent ; for not a sill or floor was level, nor a post 
or wall was plumb. It was a large square house — or it is 
reasonable to presume that it originally was square — with 
shingled roof and walls, both the worse for wear ; and it 
gave evidence of having been regaled, at some very remote 
period, with a coating of whitewash, still visible in isolated 
spots beneath the eaves and windows, though the structure 
as a whole was gray from wind and weather. 

Do not infer from this that the house was a dilapidated, 
tumble-down old dwelling, for such was not the case. It 
still was stanch and strong and tight. But, rather than else, 
it had the appearance of having been subjected to some 
gradual terrestrial upheaval, which had been disastrous to 
the original rightness of its angles. All about the place 
things were as neat and tidy as human hands could make 
them, from the smoothly shaven lawn at the front and sides 
to the high wood-pile at the back. 

Three flat stone slabs, each inclining at a different angle 
to the door-sill, made up to the front entrance and into a 
narrow hall, to the right of which was a large square room 
with a very uneven floor. From this apartment opened a 


20 


UNION DOWN. 


small bedroom and a long dining-room, while beyond the 
latter was a goodly kitchen, and farther still a porch, the 
last evidently added as increasing demands required it to 
the original structure. 

Large braided mats, round or oval and of innumerable 
cloths and colors, were the only carpets. The furniture 
was of primeval fashion, hard, straight-backed and uncom- 
fortable. A few china ornaments of moderate price were 
the only adornments of the wooden mantel, while the 
pictures on the walls were of a tasty though cheap 
description. 

But the neatness observable without was likewise observ- 
able within. If the floors were uneven and immediately 
suggestive of an old rhyme, they were as white as sand- 
stone and brawn and tissue could make them. If their 
scanty coverings were not of finest Wilton, it would have 
required a microscopic eye to have detected on them an 
approach to dirt. If the tiny panes in the numerous 
windows were wavy and bubbled, they were at least clean; 
and one would have had no difficulty in discerning through 
them the beauty of the great green hill referred to, even 
though its outline might have appeared as crooked as a 
ribbon in the wind. Every piece of the hard, uncomfortable 
furniture had a place of its own, and seldom it was that 
the place was vacant. 

These seemingly needless details must be pardoned. 
Such a character as was in this environment born and 
bred is not easily appreciated. 

Near the close of a warm day in June, the same day on 
which the Bounding Wave cleared the port of Boston for 
San Francisco, Mr. Marcus Wiseacre and his family were 
seated in the long dining-room at their evening meal. Mr. 
Wiseacre, at the head of the large table, gazed benignly 
for a moment at his wife and brood of children, then bowed 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY . 


21 


his head and in a few carefully selected words asked bless- 
ing on the humble fare. 

He was a rare specimen of the genus ho7no, this Mr. 
Wiseacre. His large round head was as bald as a pump- 
kin, save that a few gray hairs still eked out an existence 
around the base of his skull. His fat cheeks and double 
— nay, triple chin, w«ere smoothly shaven and as white and 
soft as a girl’s, while through his thin skin the delicate 
tracery of the fine red veins could be faintly seen. His 
hands, too, which were folded on the table before him, were 
as soft and tender as a maiden’s ; and his large body, inor- 
dinately fat, seemed to shake and quiver like a huge jelly 
mould with his every motion. 

He was a man of some sixty-odd years. If he ever had 
deliberately done a stroke of manual labor, it had been done 
at so remote a period that the most reliable memory among 
his townsmen could by no means recall it. His laziness 
was chronic, though he gave it a less repulsive name, claim- 
ing that his obesity quite excused him from physical labor. 
But, though he discreetly refrained from remarking it, his 
obesity was a partial result of his laziness ; and herein he 
was not unlike many men, who will nurse an illness to 
avoid an exertion. 

But if physically Mr. Wiseacre was morbidly lazy, he 
mentally was quite the reverse, though the degree to which 
this mental activity accrued to him as profitable must for 
the present remain doubtful. If he had known to be on the 
shelves of the town library a volume which he had not read, 
he would not have slept till he had sent one of his children 
to obtain it. He read almost incessantly. The earliest 
riser found him reading by the window; the last to retire 
left him reading by the lamp upon the table. He read in 
the morning, while his wife and daughters performed their 
household duties ; he read in the afternoon, and he read in 


22 


UNION DOWN 


the evening. In summer, he read upon the lawn in the 
shade of the trees; in winter, by the window nearest the 
stove. 

In fact, Mr. Wiseacre’s little eyes had become not unlike 
two tunnel-holes, through which the contents of innumera- 
ble volumes, exhaustless in variety, had been poured into his 
head. No fiction was too light, no science too complex, no 
philosophy too profound, for him to greedily pour through 
these two tunnel-holes into his round, hairless pate; but 
whether this accumulation of ideal matter remained therein, 
or escaped by some equally easy mode of exit, we do not 
pretend to say. 

As it sometimes happened that he devoured additional 
new volumes to the library ere others arrived, he was there- 
fore obliged to resort to his own little library, which con- 
sisted of a single volume — an unabridged dictionary, which 
he studied untiringly. 

The result of all this was more or less apparent, when, in 
tones of Websterian depth, he concluded, with reverential 
gentleness and pathos : 

“ And accelerate our intellects to an appreciation of Thy 
incontrovertible beneficence, commensurate with its omni- 
genousness. Amen ! ” 

There was an irrepressible twinkle in Mrs. Wiseacre’s 
bright eyes, when she raised her bowed head and prepared 
to serve the plain but wholesome fare ; while the expression 
of awe on the faces of the younger members of the family, 
gave place to that of eagerness and expectation. 

Mrs. Wiseacre was a slight little woman of something 
over fifty, who had done a deal of hard work in her day, 
yet whose enjoyment of it had rendered it comparatively 
light. For there really are, in this world of ours, people 
who actually enjoy hard work ; not indeed for the work’s 
sake, but for the satisfaction of viewing its completion, and 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 


23 


experiencing a sense of duty done. Mrs. Wiseacre was 
this sort of a person. It seems quite needless to affirm 
that the line of demarkation in this respect between her 
husband and herself, was very clearly defined. She had 
her reward in more ways than one, and she was a happy, 
cheerful, pretty little woman, despite her hard labors and 
her fifty-odd years. 

“ Naomi, my darling,” said Mr. Wiseacre, unctuously 
addressing the eldest of his children ; “ will you kindly pro- 
vide me with a glass of my metheglin ?” 

“ Certainly, father.” 

Naomi Wiseacre rose from her seat at the table, and 
brought from the cool depths of the cellar a brown jug 
of mead, composed of fermented honey and water; and 
placing at her father’s elbow a cheap figured goblet, she 
filled it with the foaming fluid. 

She was tall and graceful, this Naomi, with rare deep- 
blue eyes, and a complexion whose natural richness was 
enhanced by the deepening touch of the summer sun. 
Her form, erect and supple, was maturely developed by her 
twenty-two years. Her rich brown hair, growing a trifle 
low on her broad forehead, waved to confinement in a large 
knot behind — to be precise, a Grecian knot; and, indeed, 
her almost classic features, her finely moulded arm and 
exquisite hand, her perfect contour of figure, her gentle and 
unconscious stateliness and grace, might well have been 
called Grecian also. 

Her face in repose might have been thought stern by a 
stranger, but by such a one only ; for her long silken lashes 
so modestly lowered, the warm blush responsive to her 
every quickened sentiment, softened her graver expression, 
and made Naomi Wiseacre to those who knew her well a 
surpassingly beautiful woman. 

“ Thank you, my darling,” Mr. Wiseacre murmured 


24 


UNION DOWN. 


deeply, when she had placed the jug by his chair and 
returned to her seat. Then to his wife — 

“ Mother, will you indulge in a goblet of this rejuvenat- 
ing compound of honey and H 2 0 ? ” 

“ No, Marcus,” replied Mrs. Wiseacre, smiling at him 
across the table. “ I think I will drink some milk.” 

“ A lacteal refreshment, eh ? A draught from the bovine 
fountain, so to speak ! So be it, mother, and let us now 
proceed to our regalement of the inner man.” And with 
an indescribable smile of combined benignity and self-satis- 
faction, Mr. Wiseacre swallowed his compound of honey 
and H 2 0, apparently unconscious that several pairs of wist- 
ful eyes were fixed upon it as it disappeared down his capa- 
cious throat. 

Marcus Wiseacre was the proud and happy father of ten 
children, all living, all in excellent health, and, with one 
exception, all girls. The exception was, not unnaturally, a 
boy, aged eight; Marcus by name, Marcus Junius by dis- 
tinctive appellation. 

“ Ten digits,” Mr. Wiseacre was fain to fondly call them. 
“The presumable progenitors of a limitless posterity, of 
which I, Marcus Wiseacre, am the proud fountain-head.” 
In which Mr. Wiseacre quite ignored his ancestry. 

As these digits are not all of special importance in this 
narrative, it may be well, since occasional reference will be 
made to them individually, to designate them, with the 
exception of the three eldest and Marcus Junius, as was 
customary with Mr. Wiseacre. Had you requested him to 
name his children in the order of their birth, he probably 
would have recited only the ten digital numbers ; and cer- 
tainly he would not have deviated therefrom more than as 
follows : 

“Naomi, one; Leah, two; Ruth, three; four, five, six; 
Marcus Junius ; eight, nine, zero.” 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 


25 


Though possibly he might have added in the way of 
explanation : 

“ By this brevity you will readily perceive that I materi- 
ally diminish both my mental and physical labors. Thus 
to say, Up three and carry zero, is the facilitation of, Arise, 
Ruth, and perambulate with Baby Beatrice . ” 

The ages of from four to zero, varied between fourteen 
years and three. In regard to the last born, called zero by 
Mr. Wiseacre — it was not customary with the others of the 
family — he said, when told by a jesting friend that zero 
was symbolical of nothing — 

“ True, sir, and she may possibly turn out to be an old 
maid, which is next to nothing ! ” 

In which we are glad, writing from a lifelong observa- 
tion, to emphatically declare Mr. Wiseacre’s egregious error. 

He was a man of some property. Besides the farm on 
which he lived, he owned several smaller ones, leased to 
desirable parties who paid their quarterly rent with com- 
mendable promptness; and his only labors from January 
first to December thirty-first, were to walk occasionally 
through his fields and gardens, to make sure that the men 
he hired to work his farm worked busily. He was con- 
tented and happy ; he was abnormally self-satisfied. 

With occasional pedantic observations from the head 
of the house, which were received as matters of course by 
the others, the supper was concluded ; and the younger 
members of the family, quickly dispersing, were soon heard 
laughing and shouting at play upon the lawn. 

Mr. Wiseacre arose ponderously and slowly made his way 
into the sitting-room, the uneven floor of which trembled 
visibly under his weight. Seated book in hand by one of 
the open windows, he loosed his collar and neckband to 
insure the greatest possible comfort, and resting the lower 
edge of the book on the most convenient part of his ample 


26 


UNION DOWN 


trunk, he was within the moment oblivious to all that was 
taking place around him, and his two tunnel-holes had 
again resumed the performance of their chief function. 
The shouts of the children outside were loud and incessant, 
conversation from the kitchen might have been easily over- 
heard, several flies — those merciless pests — danced and 
capered on the polished surface of his bald white head, yet 
Mr. Wiseacre read on and on, apparently unconscious of 
all. He was dead to his environment when his tunnel- 
holes absorbed the pages of a book. 

" Oh, ma ! ” cried Ruth, a vivacious miss of sixteen, 
whose pretty face was lighted by the brightest of sparkling 
eyes. “ What do you think I heard in town to-day ? ” 

“ Hard telling, you hear so much,” replied Mrs. Wiseacre, 
removing the dishes from the table. 

“Well, I was just tremendously surprised,” Ruth contin- 
ued ; and she stopped short in her work to note the effect 
of her disclosure. “ I heard that Randolph Clavering has 
a son ! ” 

“ A son ! ” cried Leah, with an incredulous laugh. 
“Why, he hasn’t a wife, even! ”- 

“ Hush, girls ! not too loud ! ” said Mrs. Wiseacre, deci- 
sively, shaking her finger at them with a deal of emphasis. 
“ The children may overhear, and such matters are out of 
place when in the heads of children. Mr. Clavering has a 
son and has been married, but that was many years ago.” 

“I knew it,” remarked Naomi, demurely. “I have 
known it for a long time.” 

“ And never told me ! ” cried Leah, with an air of 
offended confidence. “ I would like to know why you and 
I sleep together ! Naomi Wiseacre, you’re a secretive 
thing, and I’ll pay you back in your own coin.” 

“I thought it best to say nothing of it, dear,” answered 
Naomi, gently. “ Mr. Clavering is a very nice old gentle- 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 


27 


man, and Clara Clavering is a sweet girl and my dearest 
friend. For her sake, at least, I felt to be silent.” 

Leah shrugged her symmetrical shoulders in a way sug- 
gestive of threatened retaliation, but Mrs. Wiseacre said, 
approvingly : 

“ Quite right, Naomi, dear. Mr. Clavering is indeed a 
nice old gentleman, and pity ’tis if his misfortunes must be 
in everybody’s mouth.” 

“Misfortunes, ma!” cut in Leah. “What misfortunes? 
Is it a misfortune to roll in money and to own the finest 
place in town ? ” 

“ It is a long story,” replied Mrs. Wiseacre; “but, since 
you know so much, it may be best if you know all. Wait 
until the children are abed and I will tell you.” 

“Well!” cried Ruth, with abrupt desperation; “if I 
may have a chance to speak ! That is not all. The son is 
coming home ! ” 

“What ! Coming home! ” voiced Mrs. Wiseacre, in gen- 
uine amazement. “ Manley Clavering coming home? Is it 
possible ?” 

“That is what I heard, and,” very emphatically, “on 
the best of authority — that of Mr. Bacon, the Methodist 
minister! ” 

“ Indeed ! then it must be so ! ” 

And thinking of the minister, Mrs. Wiseacre, in whose 
eyes this divine was infallible, hurriedly wiped the last dish 
and hastened away to change her apron. 

“What on earth can this story be? I am just dying of 
impatience,” murmured Leah, dancing the dishes into the 
closet. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” cried Ruth, with a prolonged sigh, as if 
mankind had, been a terrible bore to her during her sixteen 
years; “I do hope he’ll be just lovely and good and not 
stuck-up, and — and that he’ll fall in love right off with our 


28 


UNION DOWN. 


Naomi ! ” With which unselfish conclusion she bestowed 
upon the latter an impulsive kiss and a long, loving hug. 

“ Foolish little sister,” Naomi answered fondly, neverthe- 
less blushing red. “ What a wish is that ! I might not 
love him.” 

“ Well, you would live in the house on the bluff, and drive 
your own pony, and — and — and that’s something! ” 

“And little enough — if that were all,” murmured Naomi, 
demurely. 

It was not long before the shadows of evening began to 
gather, and a mellow voice from behind the book at the 
window was heard. 

“ Mother, is it not approaching the hour when zero, nine, 
eight, seven and six were consigned to their respective 
couches ? ” 

“ I am about it, Marcus, dear. Continue your reading.” 

“Very good, my beloved. Naomi, precious, may I pre- 
vail upon you to illuminate ? ” 

“ Which means that you wish me to light the lamp, I 
presume,” laughed Naomi, rising from her seat on the stone 
steps at the open door. 

“ Indubitably, my dear,” blandly answered Mr. Wiseacre, 
with a beaming smile upon the charming girl who had 
entered. “Is my language incomprehensible ? My library 
is quite at your disposal.” 

“Tell him you cannot swallow a dictionary,” cried a 
voice outside. 

“ Ruth, my pet, your facetiousness has a faint but pain- 
ful ring of irony. Refrain from aiming these barbed arrows 
at your aged father’s heart. Do you not know that I am 
sensitive — supersensitive, my dove ? ” 

And, would you believe it, there was a tear in either of 
Mr. Wiseacre’s little tunnel-holes, when Ruth danced into 
the room and kissed him loudly on both fat cheeks. 


THE WISEACRE FAMILY. 


29 


Naomi, having lighted the lamp and drawn the table to 
her father’s elbow, returned to her seat on the doorsteps. 

The lingering crimson of the far west had deepened to 
purple, and a myriad of stars began to twinkle in the cloud- 
less sky. Not a breath stirred the leafy branches of the 
trees, or rippled the still waters of the distant bay, lying 
like a dark mirror of the silent heavens. The rays from 
the lamp streamed out through the open window, and illu- 
mined with a wax-like lustre a little space upon the moist 
lawn. From a pond near by sounded the dull, intermittent 
croaking of the frogs, while the damp, dewy meadows echoed 
with the shrill, incessant chirping of crickets. A lonesome, 
homesickening enviroment enough to a stranger traveler. 

A shadowy form, dimly discernible through the darkness, 
passed along the opposite side of the otherwise deserted 
road — the form of a woman. 

“ Who was it ? ” whispered Leah, drawing closer to 
Naomi’s side with a feeling of awe. 

“It looked like Mrs. Godbold,” Naomi answered, softly. 
“John Godbold sailed to-day for San Francisco, and she is 
alone again.” 

“ And I should think she’d be glad of it,” said Ruth, 
shortly. “I’d sooner live alone all the days of my life, 
than with such a brute as he.” 

“ He is her husband,” said Naomi, demurely, as if that 
alone should settle it. “Let us sing something.” 

“Wait till we have heard the story of Randolph Clavering. 
Wait till we have heard ma’s story. I am just expiring,” 
whispered Leah, with a thrill of ecstatic anticipation. 

“ She is busy just now. She will join us soon.” 

And in a low, sweet contralto, Naomi began to sing. 
Her sisters readily joined in the familiar melody, and their 
softly modulated tones rose in an exquisite harmony on the 
still night air. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE STORY. 

“Years ago, Naomi,” began Mrs. Wiseacre, when seated 
with her daughters ; “there was no stately dwelling out on 
yonder bluff which overlooks the bay, there were no attract- 
ive grounds and driveways, no delightful lawns and rows of 
charming shade-trees. There was only a great dry field, 
which terminated in a high embankment above the sandy 
shore. When I was a girl, we used to go down there to 
push great stones over the brink, to see them plunge 
through a cloud of dust and dirt to the water’s edge ; or to 
watch the boats sailing up and down the bay, and wave our 
white aprons to the people aboard them. But the view 
then was just as grand and beautiful from that barren, 
windy bluff, as it is to-day from Randolph Clavering’s broad 
veranda.” 

“That must have been a very long time ago,” murmured 
Leah, thoughtfully. 

“ Oh, not so very long,” laughed Mrs. Wiseacre. “ Soon 
after I was married, the dear old bluff of my girlhood under- 
went a great change ; and this is how it came about. 
During the summer months it was customary, much the 
same as it is now, for our town to be visited by city people, 
seeking the pleasures of ocean and country. Among the 
strangers who lived at the hotel here during one whole sea- 
son, was a man named Kimball Allen.” 

“Why, ma ! I’ve seen that name on a gravestone down 
in the churchyard. Was he the same one ? ” This excit- 

30 


THE STORY. 


31 


edly from Ruth, whose bright eyes were constantly se'eing 
something unobserved by others. “You know, ma,” she 
added, eagerly fingering the narrator’s knee; “it’s away in 
a corner, all alone by itself.” 

“Yes, dear, it is the same,” was the gentle rejoinder. 
“ But you must not interrupt me, for I wish to make this 
story very clear to you, that your own sense of propriety 
may constrain you from speaking lightly of it. Mr. Claver- 
ing has done a great deal of good for the town, as well as 
for the people in it, and his misfortune is seldom referred 
to by his friends.” 

“Yes, yes, do keep quiet, Ruth; you’re always talking,” 
muttered Leah, impatiently. 

“ I’m not ! ” was the bellicose response. 

This inclination was rebuked by Mrs. Wiseacre with a 
very expressive look, and, hostilities instantly terminating 
in a mutual giggle, she continued. 

“ Kimball Allen was then a gentleman of about forty 
years, and apparently very wealthy ; yet little was known of 
him save that he came from New York. He was very 
reserved and spent most of his time in his room, or in wan- 
dering through the fields and woodland. Daily, when the 
weather was fair and warm, he might have been seen out 
there on the bluff, reclining alone upon the dry grass, and 
gazing for hours at the waters of the bay.” 

“How odd,” murmured Ruth, with a giggle instantly 
suppressed to a gasp. 

“ People vainly wondered and talked, for though he was 
always courteous when addressed, he said almost nothing 
of himself. Yet he praised unstintedly the pleasant situa- 
tion of the town, the beautiful prospect from the bluff 
where he spent so much of his time, and he finally came to 
be regarded as a peculiar man and very much of a recluse. 
He remained here all summer, and so pleased was he with 


32 


UNION DOWN 


the place that, before departing, he purchased the bluff and 
all the lands adjoining, which Randolph Clavering now 
owns.” 

“And how many years ago v/as that, mother?” gravely 
asked Naomi. 

“That, dear, was twenty-four years ago this summer, 
two years before you were born. Soon after the purchase, 
the great change was begun. Kimball Allen returned to 
New York, leaving behind him his instructions. The bluff 
was nicely leveled, all the rocks and stones removed, and 
the place made ready for building. The following May the 
house was completed and beautifully furnished, and Mr. 
Allen soon after returned and took possession. But now 
he did not come alone ; he brought with him a wife and 
baby girl, little more than a month old.” 

“Oh, my!” and Ruth hugged herself in delight. “And 
what became of her ? ” 

“ Wait,” cautioned Mrs. Wiseacre. “ Of course every- 
one was delighted by this grand and unexpected addition 
to the town, and much sympathy was expressed for Mr. 
Allen.” 

“ Sympathy, ma ? ” 

“Yes; for he had strangely changed in the single year of 
his absence. He had grown thin and pale, and never left 
his house or received visitors, and it was said that he was 
in failing health. About a month subsequent to their 
arrival, a stranger alighted from the train at the depot, and 
was driven at once to Mr. Allen’s home. After a visit v of 
several hours he departed, leaving town by the first train, 
and behind him the astounding news that he had purchased 
the Allen property. This at first was doubted ; but three 
days later Mr. Allen closed the house, refusing to see or 
speak with friends, and departed with his wife and servants. 
Of course there were many rumors : that he had failed in 


THE STORY. 


33 


business, that the location did not agree with him, that he 
was disappointed in his place ; but, in truth, none seemed 
to really know his reason for selling. Very soon after, 
Randolph Clavering moved into the forsaken house, which 
he had bought, furnishings and all, just as they stood.” 

“But, ma, what” — 

“Wait one moment, Leah; I am approaching the most 
interesting portion of this mysterious story. Mr. Clavering 
was then about forty, very gay and handsome, and was 
married to a beautiful girl who could not have been more 
than nineteen or twenty. They had been married about a 
year, and had one child, a boy, who was named Manley 
Clavering. The new arrivals were very gay and social, and 
quickly grew into the liking of all. They were free and 
generous, giving several parties and receptions, and placing 
their boats and horses at the disposal of their friends; and 
long before the summer was past, Randolph Clavering and 
his charming young wife were the beloved and courted of 
the town, and Kimball Allen, who had built the house on 
the bluff, was well-nigh forgotten.” 

“An ungrateful world,” murmured Naomi, thoughtfully. 

“Go on, ma! It is so thrilling — just like a novel,” 
whispered Leah, quivering with excitement and hugging 
her own shapely shoulders in blissful anticipation. 

But before Mrs. Wiseacre could continue, there suddenly 
arose a tremulous jarring of the house ; the bright space 
upon the lawn was briefly eclipsed by a passing body; 
there was a sound of slow and ponderous footfalls ; and Mr. 
Wiseacre, waddling heavily into the narrow entry, which he 
nearly filled, stood in tremulous but towering majesty 
behind them. Bracing his fat body against both sides of 
the narrow doorway, he gazed for a moment at the clear 

stern sky, then moderately observed : 



‘ The calmness is favorable and the ethereal conditions 


34 


UNION DOWN. 


are propitious. I think that I may judiciously prognosticate 
a pleasant day for the morrow.” 

And rubbing his soft oily palms together, he bestowed a 
bland smile upon the little group at his feet, and paused to 
note the effect of his grandiloquent words. The only 
appreciable effects were a very audible sigh from impatient 
Leah, and a frigid silence on the part of the others. Mr. 
Wiseacre put this and that together, and said very gra- 
ciously, but with an air of painful resignation : 

“ I intrude upon my darlings ; I feel that I intrude. I 
am conscious of experiencing in my sympathetic system that - 
sensation which compels cognizance of intruding. I will 
depart, my dear ones. I will go as I came — like a beauti- 
ful dream. Maintain your privacy, my pets ; it is the uni- 
versal prerogative of your sex.” 

“ Have you finished reading, Marcus ? ” gently inquired 
his wife, when he half turned away. 

“I have, mother,” he replied, with unvarying unction. 

“ I have concluded my volume, and I supposed, not unnat- 
urally I think, that my companionship would be agreea- 
ble to you all. I observe that I have suffered myself to be 
actuated by an erroneous impression. I am sorry. I will 
retire at once to my solitude. Again — pardon me ! ” 

The pathos thrown into his deep, tremulous voice was 
irresistible, even though assumed, and Naomi quickly arose 
to make way for him to come out. 

“Nonsense, father, dear,” she said fondly. “Join us at 
once, and I will bring your chair. The idea of secrecy 
from one’s father ! ” 

Mr. Wiseacre shook tremendously under the gleeful, mel- 
lifluous chuckle which bubbled up to his lips while he 
inwardly extolled his generalship ; and carefully making his 
way down the three low steps, he seated himself in the chair 
which Naomi brought and placed near by upon the lawn. 


THE STORY. 


35 


“ Now,” said he, when the others had resumed their 
seats; “continue your conversation, my darlings. Do not 
allow my presence to hamper your volubility. I will listen 
attentively. Great minds not unfrequently acquire worthy 
ideas from lesser ones. I will listen.” 

“ I think, Marcus, that you had better do the talking,” 
suggested Mrs. Wiseacre. “ My throat begins to feel a lit- 
tle raw, and there yet remains considerable to be told. 
You, moreover, can tell the balance better than I, for you 
will speak from personal experience.” 

“ Ah, then I imagine that you have been talking of my 
beloved friend Clavering.” 

“Yes, pa!” cried Leah, impulsively. “ Ma has told us 
all about Kimball Allen and his wife, and how they departed 
after Mr. Clavering bought the house, and — and now you 
go on with it, do ! ” 

“ And, oh, pa ! ” put in Ruth, with a whine of utter des- 
peration ; “do please for my sake avoid your big words! 
Indeed, I cannot masticate them ! ” 

Mr. W T iseacre vented a laugh as round and unctuous as 
his great oily body, and, drawing his chair a little nearer 
and resting his hands upon his huge limbs, answered 
fondly : 

“So I will, my precious brighteyes ; so I will. And I 
think I can catch up the thread of the story precisely where 
mother dropped it, for having finished my book I over- 
heard all that she said.” 

“ I was well aware of it,” gaily retorted Mrs. Wiseacre. 
“I saw by the shadow of your head on the grass yonder 
that you were listening, and I knew you could not remain 
aloof after I had reached a certain point.” 

“ Ob, pa ! ” cried Naomi disapprovingly; and then they all 
laughed at the harmless deception which these fond parents 
had practiced one upon the other. 


36 


UNION DOWN. 


“Well, well, so I myself was outgeneralled,” said Mr. 
Wiseacre, in infinite good-nature — as he ever was. “ But, 
darlings, all is fair in love and war, and I ” — 

“ Do begin, pa, dear ! ” from Leah. 

“ So I will, then, darling.” 

And Mr. Wiseacre cleared his throat with a resound- 
ing — ahem! and in a softly resonant tone, which seemed 
to originate in the very depths of his huge body, he con- 
tinued the story which his wife had begun. 

“ At the time of Kimball Allen’s brief residence here, I 
was, my darlings, though I say it who perhaps should not, a 
very popular man among my townsmen. I had the honor 
of being chairman of the Board of Selectmen, a distinction 
that would be thrust upon me to this very day, but that my 
obesity incapacitates me from expediently performing the 
functions of the honorable office.” 

A subdued moan from Ruth. 

“Pardon my remarking this fact,” dryly continued Mr. 
Wiseacre; “it is a pleasing recollection. To resume, I 
called twice on Mr. Allen during his brief residence at the 
house on the bluff, and was much surprised by his changed 
appearance. He had become pale and emaciated, and his 
sunken eyes had a strange and unnatural glow. He seemed 
dull and forgetful, and, viewing him with my critical eye, I 
said in mind — you, sir, are in trouble. Our talk, however, 
was upon general topics only, for I could not inveigle him 
into discourse of himself. His wife, too, was very grave 
and reserved, and early in June he sold his place and left 
town. I need not dwell upon the arrival of Randolph 
Clavering and his wife, and the favorable impression they 
created, for your worthy mother has admirably covered 
that ground.” 

“ Thank you, Marcus,” murmured his wife, with a respons- 
ive blush. 


THE STORY. 


37 


Mr. Wiseacre bowed with profound fondness, and more 
earnestly continued. 

“Some weeks subsequent to Mr. Allen’s departure, I 
received from New York a telegram which read, as nearly 
as I now recall it — ‘Marcus Wiseacre, Esq., Chairman of 
Board of Selectmen, etc., etc. : Acting upon instructions left 
by the deceased, I this day forward body of Kimball Allen 
to your town for burial’.” 

“ Burial ! ” gasped Leah, with a little shudder. 

“ Burial ! ” echoed both the other girls. 

“Precisely,” said Mr. Wiseacre, impressively. “The 
message contained nothing more, save the signature of the 
sender — a third-rate metropolitan undertaker. Deeply sur- 
prised, I wired back: ‘What caused Kimball Allen’s death? 
Send particulars.’ I received in reply only this : ‘He died 
of neglect. Unable to give further particulars’.” 

“ How horrible ! ” shuddered Ruth, getting between her 
mother’s knees; while Leah, edging closer to her father, 
cried in a whisper of intense excitement : 

“Go it, pa! go it! It’s just splendidly thrilling.” 

“Patience, my dearie, patience,” answered he, in bland 
reproval. “ Learn to govern your curiosity. Learn to sub- 
due your desires.” 

And he waited long, to assure himself that his advice had 
fallen on fertile soil. But Leah was equal to the occasion ; 
for if she made no effort to restrain her curiosity, she care- 
fully concealed it, and Mr. Wiseacre, with an approving 
smile, went on. 

“Amazed by the information, I hastened to the one man 
who, I thought, might be able to explain the mystery. That 
man was Mr. Randolph Clavering. He received me with his 
invariable cordiality, but unexpectedly evinced as much 
surprise and mystification as I myself had experienced. 
“‘But, Mr, Clavering,’ said I, calling his attention to the 


38 


UNION DOWN 


later message; ‘this informs us that Mr. Allen died of 
neglect. Such a death is hardly consistent with the recent 
sale of this valuable estate. May I ask what your relations 
have been with him, and under what terms of settlement 
your purchase was made ? This matter assumes a serious 
aspect, which must be my only excuse for such inquiries. 

“‘I agree with you/ was his hearty reply; ‘and I will do 
all in my power to aid you. Before referring to my relations 
with the deceased, however, allow me to say a few words of 
myself, as we are comparatively strangers.’ 

“ I bowed my appreciation of his courtesy, and was much 
flattered by his interest and ready co-operation. 

“ ‘What I would say of myself/ he began; ‘may be said 
in a few words. I have been for many years in the drug 
and opium business, importing quite extensively into New 
York and Boston, in both of which places I am quite well 
known. About two years ago, I determined to marry and 
retire from business, my vocation being distateful to me, and 
I not wishing to embark in any new enterprises. I did so, 
and you are acquainted with my wife, of whom I need not 
speak further. Desiring to locate in some pleasant country 
town near the sea, I chanced to notice this advertisement in 
one of the Boston dailies.’ 

“ He took from his pocket a slip cut from a newspaper and 
handed it to me to read. It described the estate which he 
had purchased, but gave no reason for the desire to sell. I 
returned the clipping, and Mr. Clavering continued. 

“‘That/ said he; ‘was cut from a Boston daily of several 
weeks ago. I did not delay to correspond by letter with 
Mr. Allen, being eager to locate for the summer ; but I hast- 
ened to call on him in person. I was informed by him that 
his health was failing, that he desired to go abroad for sev- 
eral years, and that he wished to turn his summer residence 
into ready money. I went over the entire place, found it to 


THE STORY. 


39 


my liking, and, a price being agreed upon, I made the pur- 
chase. I returned to Boston the same day, with an under- 
standing that we should meet there one week later, when he 
was to give me the deed of the property and I was to pay 
him his money. This was done. I called on him at his 
hotel, received the deed, and paid to him as agreed twelve 
thousand dollars in cash, the receipt for which I have in 
yonder desk. On those occasions only, Mr. Wiseacre, have 
I ever met Mr. Allen, and I know nothing further concern- 
ing him. He appeared to be a gentleman of means, and I 
thought no more of him than I should have of any stranger 
of whom I was making such a purchase.’ 

“Mr. Clavering, who had spoken very frankly, now 
opened his desk and produced the receipt signed by 
Kimball Allen, remarking, while I examined it : 

“‘Less than three months ago, Mr. Allen had twelve 
thousand dollars in cash. I know this to be a fact, for I 
placed the money in his hand. Your telegram says that he 
is dead of neglect. Mr. Wiseacre, there is a wide difference 
of some kind.’ 

“‘Very wide,’ I answered, pointedly. ‘Did you, Mr. 
Clavering, observe anything peculiar in his appearance or 
manner when you met him in Boston ? ’ 

“‘Nothing that I now recall,’ was the answer. 

“ ‘ Did you meet his wife at that time ? ’ 

“‘Yes, I passed over an hour in their room at the hotel. 
They were very agreeable, and when I arose to go both 
bade me a warm adieu, saying that we probably would not 
meet again, as they left for New York next morning. I do 
* remember, now, that Mr. Allen said rather abruptly to his 
wife, “You are resolved to go, then?”, To which she 
replied, “Yes, I am resolved to go.” As I now recall the 
scene, I think she spoke rather sharply; but I then gave 
the matter no thought, anticipating nothing unusual.’ ” 


40 


UNION DOWN 


Mr. Wiseacre paused to inhale a long breath, and the fact 
that not a question came from his attentive hearers, evinced 
the interest which his narrative had awakened. 

“I looked at Mr. Clavering,” he continued, with 
increased earnestness; “and Mr. Clavering looked at me. 

I felt that he had imparted all the information in his posses- 
sion, yet I ventured a little farther. 

“‘Do you know of him as a business man in New York, 
or had you ever heard of him ? ’ 

“‘Mr. Wiseacre/ he replied, gravely; ‘I never have seen 
or heard of Kimball Allen except as I have stated.’ 

“‘Well/ I answered; ‘this is a very strange affair. It 
looks a little like foul play. Where is this man’s wife? 
What has become of the money which he is known to have 
had? Why can we learn no particulars of his death? And 
why is his body sent to us for burial? Mr. Clavering, I 
hardly know how best to act in this matter. What would 
you advise?’ 

“He was thoughtful for a long time, then gave me this 
very excellent counsel : 

“‘I would take no action, Mr. Wiseacre/ said he; ‘until 
the remains of Mr. Allen arrive. I would then have 
an autopsy made, and, if the physician finds grounds 
for suspicion, it will then be a good plan for you to 
go to New York and investigate the affair. If I can 
give you any assistance, I will be very glad to accompany 
you.’ 

“This was very kind on the part of my dear friend 
Clavering, and I thanked him very heartily. The next day 
the body of Mr. Allen arrived, and the autopsy immediately 
held revealed the appalling probability that the man had 
literally died of starvation ! ” 

“ Starvation ! ” ejaculated Leah, in augmented excitement. 
“ Died of starvation ? ” 


THE STOR V. 


41 


“So it certainly appeared,” said Mr. Wiseacre, with a 
grave shaking of his head; and then he abruptly rose to 
his feet and immediately sat down again, but wherefore we 
are quite unable to state. 

“The next day,” he continued; “my friend Clavering 
and I went to New York. We could learn but little from 
the undertaker, save that the man had died in a low lodging- 
house, and had left written instructions as to the disposal 
of his remains, as well as an amount adequate to defray the 
expenses of burial. At his lodgings he was wholly 
unknown. He had been there but a few days, had come 
there alone, lived there alone, and died there alone. We 

reported the facts to the police, or, rather, my friend 

Clavering did; and we spent nearly a week in a vain search 
for Mrs. Allen, and for information concerning her dead 
husband. Our every effort being fruitless, we finally 

returned home. The remains of Kimball Allen were 

buried where they now lie, and we know to-day no more of 
the whereabouts of his wife and child, than we knew then. 
It is a mystery of which we can form no solution.” 

“But, pa!” cried Leah, who regretfully saw that the 
story was nearing its close. “You’ve forgotten something! 
What on earth has become of Mr. Clavering’s wife?” 

Mr. Wiseacre’s face lengthened. 

“Ah, my child, that is quite another matter,” he slowly 
answered, in tones tremulous with sympathy. “Sad, sad, 
indeed; and I charge you one and all to constrain the idle 
tongue of gossip. Randolph Clavering and I are warm 
friends — old, tried and trusted friends ; and although he is 
more abundantly supplied with riches of a purely worldly 
nature than I am, I cherish his friendship and revere him 
not a jot or tittle less on that account. Never let me hear 
that child of mine has spoken lightly of my dear friend 
Clavering’s misfortune.” 


42 


UNION DOWN 


“To be sure not, pa!” cried Leah, impatient of delay. 
“ But what was his misfortune ? ” 

“A sad, sad affliction, indeed,” was the choked rejoinder. 
“ A terrible blow for a man of Clavering’s proud, honorable 
and sensitive nature to be called on to sustain. Alas ! she 
placed a heavy cross upon my dear friend’s shoulders.” 

“But what? what, pa? Don’t be plaguey!” 

“Three weeks subsequent to our return from New York, 
my dears, Randolph Clavering’s beautiful young wife de- 
serted him, taking with her their only child, a boy a year old.” 

“ Deserted him ! ” gasped Leah, to whom this unexpected 
climax was excruciatingly interesting. 

“But what for?” excitedly queried Ruth; which, all 
things being considered, was a not unnatural question. 

“ I know of none who can answer that,” said Mr. Wiseacre, 
solemnly; “save, possibly, Randolph Clavering himself. 
Yet even he avers the contrary. She was many years youn- 
ger than he, and was very beautiful. Perhaps she loved 
another, or had — but, shame upon me! what right have I to 
surmise ? The misfortune visited upon my cherished friend 
should constrain my sympathetic pity only. He has never 
been the man he was. I am sorry for him — I am sorry for 
her!” And Mr. Wiseacre wiped a tear from one of his 
tunnel-holes with the back of his fair, fat hand. 

“Has she never since been heard from?” asked Naomi, 
with great sad eyes. 

“Never to my knowledge, dear,” replied her father. 
“Mr. Clavering left town immediately and remained away 
nearly a year. When he returned, he brought with him an 
orphan child whom he had adopted, the daughter of an old 
business friend who had recently died — the girl you now 
know as Clara Clavering.” 

Mr. Wiseacre’s voice had been wonderfully grave and 
sympathetic during his later utterances; but now, as if to 


THE STORY. 


43 


cast off possible show of unmanly weakness, he suddenly 
braced himself in his chair and cried cheerfully : 

“ That is all, my darlings ; that is all ! Each and every 
fact has been carefully and precisely stated. The evidence 
pro and con is all in, and the case is left to your wisdom 
and discretion. Mark you — never a word of gossip! 
Hold yourselves ever beyond violation of the Golden Rule. 
I believe that you will — yea, I know that you will! And 
now, my beloved ones, away to your respective sanctuaries. 
The hour is late and Morpheus long ere this should have 
had you folded in his soothing arms.” 

“First, Marcus, dear, a bit of news for you,” interposed 
Mrs. Wiseacre, laughing softly. 

“For me, my Joan? And what is that?” 

“Manley Clavering is coming home.” 

“What!” cried Mr. Wiseacre, in a tone which Homer’s 
loud-mouthed herald might have envied; and, with face 
transfigured by joyous surprise, he rose abruptly to his feet. 
“ Coming homeJ Manley Clavering coming home ! ” 

“So the Reverend Bacon says,” his wife responded 
sweetly, her mind upon the minister. 

“God bless him! God bless him!” gurgled Mr. 
Wiseacre, chokingly; though whether to the Reverend 
Bacon or to Manley Clavering he referred will ever remain 
in doubt. “ Coming home ! Manley .Clavering coming 
home ! The son for whom the father’s heart has yearned, 
well-nigh to breaking, for more than twenty years! Oh, 
Clavering, my cherished old friend, I rejoice with you ! My 
heart has bled and wept with yours ; let them now sing and 
rejoice together ! Coming home ! God grant one further 
blessing — that he may be as grand in his simplicity, as 
innately noble and unselfish as yourself, my dear, dear 
friend Clavering ! ” 

And this doting old husband and father and friend strug- 


44 


UNION DOWN. 


gled laboriously up the three low steps and into the house 
while speaking, with sobs of sympathetic gratitude shaking 
his prodigious bosom and tears coursing down his fair, fat 
cheeks. 

“Oh, dear! Put your arm around me, Naomi,” desper- 
ately whispered Leah, when they were abed and the angular 
house with its irregular floors and sills was shrouded in 
darkness. “ I know that I shall dream all night of dead men 
and starvation, and great houses with spooks in them, and of 
wicked women who run away and desert their husbands — 
like Randolph Clavering’s wife ! Oh, I just know I shall ! ” 

And she did. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 

It was indeed a sightly edifice, isolated from all humbler 
habitations and situated on the high bluff which overlooked 
the sea. Its lofty gables, rising high above the transplanted 
shade-trees, formed dark, noticeable angles against the azure 
sky. On each side was a wtde sweep of level lawn, beautified 
by artistic flower-beds, and terminating on the water front 
at the brink of the bluff, seventy feet or more above the 
pebbly shore. 

All day long the salt sea-breezes eddied round the deep 
veranda, swinging aimlessly the empty hammocks, and sing- 
ing softly through the spaces of the great willow chairs. 
Twenty-odd years of wind and weather had made but little 
impression on the fine structure which Kimball Allen had 
erected, and in which Randolph Clavering so long had 
dwelt with his adopted daughter. 

No man who had suffered as Randolph Clavering had 
suffered, could be other than a broken man. The blow 
dealt him had been lasting, and the terrible past was ever 
green in his memory. He had been a proud and at times 
perhaps an arrogant man, but throughout his bitter experi- 
ence pride alone had sustained him. If he had made an 
effort to reclaim the wife who had deserted him, the fact had 
been kept in the dark; and the only hope he had freely 
expressed from the day she departed, was the hope that 
sooner or later his son would be restored to him — when 

45 


46 


UNION DOWH. 


the wife’s heart might be touched by repentance. But year 
after year of vain hoping had passed, and he had grown to 
bear his cross aloof from vulgar observation. 

He did next to nothing in the way of work. A young 
man of the neighborhood was employed in the capacity of 
gardener and stableman, while the household duties were 
looked after by a hale and hearty widow named Hannah 
Hood. 

On pleasant days he frequently went for a drive behind 
his gentle black horse, but rarely in other company than 
that of his foster-daughter. He had become very reserved, 
yet was never other than kind and gracious when occasion 
required. He was respected by all, pitied by many, and 
beloved by the few with whom he came at times in con- 
tact. The child whom years before he had adopted at 
the earnest solicitation of another, he had grown to love 
as qnly men can love who suffer; and suffering had bro- 
ken Randolph Clavering physically and weakened him 
mentally. 

In the warm sunshine of an early morning, that morning 
following the incidents recorded in the previous chapter, 
he was seated alone on his broad veranda, gazing thought- 
fully over the sparkling waters of the bay. He was a man 
turned sixty, but he looked much older, for there were a 
feebleness of movement, a persistent tremulousness of his 
limbs and head, which evinced the breaking-down that had 
been going on within him. His face was pale, and some- 
what wrinkled and thin, but the fact was still manifest that 
in the past he had been a handsome man. A scanty gray 
moustache partly hid his finely chiselled lips ; 'but when he 
smiled, and he smiled frequently that early morning, he 
revealed a row of perfect white te^th, which seemed to give 
the lie to his wanness and wrinkles. 

Once while he sat there he drew forth a letter, which 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 


47 


he pressed fondly to his lips, kissing it and tremulously 
murmuring : 

“This is the day. He says to-day. He is coming back 
to his home, to his father — my boy! my dear, dear boy!” 

How fondly he dwelt on those last words. With shaking 
hand he hurriedly brushed a tear from his cheek, and 
quickly added, in a sort of nervous ecstacy: 

“There must be none of this — no weeping — no tears! 
He must be happy here, and gay and merry! There must 
be no sobs, no weeping over the lost past. There must be 
nothing to cloud my boy’s happiness. My boy! Twenty — 
more than twenty long years since I have sefen him, since I 
have clasped him in these arms, since — since I have heard 
one word from her! God and I only know what years of 
anguish ! But the hour is near — he says to-day; thank God, 
the hour of restoration is near! Clara, is that you?” 

His ear had caught the sound of light footsteps, descend- 
ing the stairs in the near hall. 

“Yes, father, dear,” came the fond rejoinder; and his fos- 
ter-daughter, daintily dressed in a pale-blue morning-gown, 
stepped out on the veranda to bend above and kiss him. 

She was somewhat more than twenty years of age, and 
of medium height. Her figure, though slight, was perfectly 
moulded, even to the dainty white hand resting on the old 
gentleman’s shoulder, and the tiny slippered foot peeping 
from beneath the fQlds of her dress. Her face was oval, 
her features regular,, her brow lofty and crowned by an 
abundance of wavy brown hair. Her moist red lips, rather 
finely cut to be well characteristic of her gentle nature, 
revealed when parted an even row of pearly teeth. 

She was high-souled and acutely sensitive, unhardened by 
contact with the world, unbred to subtlety; and her warm 
young blood never failed to picture in her face her every sen- 
timent. She was exquisitely modest and attractive; not 


48 


UNION DOWN 


strikingly so, as was Naomi Wiseacre, with that grave 
beauty which inspires a sort of awe ; but rather daintily and 
shyly so, awakening an immediate response in woman, an 
inordinate love in man. 

“What a beautiful morning !” she exclaimed softly, her 
hand gliding around her father’s neck. “How blue and 
bright the water is.” 

Randolph Clavering took the fair white hand in his and 
fondly pressed it to his lips. 

“Yes, Clara, dear — yes,” he faltered brokenly. “It is a 
beautiful morning. Is it not a good omen, dear? Such a 
day as this to welcome my boy’s return! Not a cloud mars 
the blue of the heavens.” 

He grew tremulously eager while speaking, and his voice 
was choked as if by a subdued sob ; then he laughed away 
his rising emotion — a laugh that was indescribably nervous 
and uncertain. 

Clara drew his gray head to her side and leaned a little 
backward, that he might not see the glow which rose to her 
cheeks. 

“Yes, dear father, I think it is a good omen,” she 
answered tenderly. “I so earnestly hope that it is! I am 
glad that Manley is coming home, and I am so very glad 
that his coming gives you happiness.” 

She impulsively dropped to her knees and wound her 
arms around him, looking up into his eyes. He bent for- 
ward and touched his lips to her brow. 

“My darling daughter 1” he cried chokingly. “I know 
that you are glad; I know that you are. You are so good 
and true and generous. Some women would be selfish, jeal- 
ous of an interloper such as — no, no, my child! Don’t 
look at me like that! I am wrong to speak so, to harbor 
such a thought even. Forgive me, dear one! You are 
both my children.” 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 


49 


She wound her arms closer around him, and tears glis- 
tened in her upturned eyes. 

“Dear, dear father, do not have thoughts like these, so 
foreign to your own true self,” she pleaded softly. “Remem- 
ber what you have been to me, my own loved and loving 
one. I could make no sacrifice to your dear happiness, for 
your happiness embraces mine. I am truly glad that your 
son is to be restored to you, dear father. I will love him as I 
love you. I will love him as a true sister should love a 
manly brother.” 

Randolph Clavering was sobbing as if his heart were 
breaking. 

“Do not weep, dear father,” soothed the gentle girl at his 
knees. “I appreciate all you have suffered; I know how 
you must feel. But this, dear, is the fairest omen of all; 
for tears in the morning presage smiles and joy ere the com- 
ing of night. Cheer up, and be your own dear self again.” 

“Yes, yes, I will; I will,” cried the old gentleman, draw- 
ing himself up in his chair and nervously brushing the tears 
from his cheeks. “It is past, now — all past! Is not 
breakfast ready? It seems a long time in preparation. I 
must have arisen early — yes, I did rise early! I could not 
sleep. I arose to greet the day on which my boy returns. 
Kiss me, Clara; then go to see if breakfast is on the table.” 

Clara Clavering, who had risen to her feet while he was 
speaking in this desultory and almost childish manner, bent 
down and kissed him again and again. 

“Remember, dear,” she murmured earnestly. “No more 
of weeping or of tears ! ” 

“No, no, sweet Clara! Never again-!” cried he, over his 
shoulder ; for she had turned away to enter the house. 

He was alone again with his thoughts. The color which 
had risen to his cheeks slowly faded and left a customary 
pallor. The face of the girl whom he loved so tenderly 


50 


UNION DOWN. 


passed out of his mind ; her gentle words were drowned in a 
sudden upwelling of agonizing memories. His lips quiv- 
ered piteously tears surged again to his eyes; his figure 
was shaken as if by ague. He was thinking of the past. 

“ Oh, God ! God above, forgive the erring one ! ” 

The cry, freighted with anguish indescribable, broke 
audibly from his heaving breast; and, suddenly bowing his 
face in his hands, he fell to sobbing like a child in abandon- 
ment to grief. 

Yes, when Randolph Clavering’s wife deserted him 
twenty-odd years before, the blow was indeed severe. 

Clara soon returned and summoned him to breakfast. 

“All ready — I am all ready, dear,” he responded, with 
enforced gaiety ; and, rising, he drew the girl’s arm through 
his own. 

“ See ! ” gleefully cried he, pointing over the bay. “ See 
there, Clara! A yacht is rounding the point. See how she 
dashes the water from her snowy bow. See how she 
dances over the waves, as light as a sea-bird, as — as light 
as my heart is, Clara!” He caught back a sob, then 
laughed aloud. 

“Ah, Clara,” added he; “a yacht on a summer sea is a 
beautiful picture ! My boy shall have a yacht — yes, and a 
famous yacht! She shall have no rival in these parts, no 
peer in these waters — for her name shall be Clara!” 

“Oh, father!” cried she, laughing happily at his joy- 
ous excitement. “What has come over you? I am so 
pleased — but, alas! I fear that you are falling to flattery.” 

“No, no, dear; the words are not framed that can flatter 
my loyal and unselfish daughter. Come, let us go in to 
breakfast.” 

And, with courtesy of the old school, he conducted her 
into the house. 

It was a large square room- — the breakfast-room; with 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 


51 


deep French windows that overlooked the sea and opened to 
the side veranda. At the back of the room was a heavy, 
antique sideboard, richly laden with silver and cut glass, 
the most of which had recently been brought from the 
gloomy security of the store-closet, and polished to its pris- 
tine brilliancy in honor of Manley Clavering’s return. The 
great dining-table was large enough to easily have seated a 
dozen, but Randolph Clavering would never permit the sub- 
stitution of a smaller one. 

“The time will surely come when we shall need it,” he 
was wont to say, with pitiable longing; “when the lost may 
be restored ; when the old house may ring once more with 
merry song and joyous laughter. No, no! we will never 
remove the great dining-table.” 

But now there were three only of the delicate Haviland 
plates turned down upon the snowy damask cloth, three 
only of the heavy walnut chairs drawn forth from the deco- 
rated wall. 

In one corner of the room stood a tall clock of our fore- 
fathers. It was ticking steadily, ticking loudly, ticking 
monotonously — it was ticking into the lost past the seconds 
of Randolph Clavering’s broken life. Would the thread spin 
on till he should hear again those long-desired songs and 
the ring of joyous laughter? Why not! he still was quite a 
strong old man. 

“What! eight o’clock only!” cried he, as he entered with 
his daughter. “ Indeed, I must have risen bright and early, 
Hannah.” 

He had addressed himself to his stout and matronly 
housekeeper, who waited at his chair to push him to the 
table, and who had lived so many years in the house on the 
bluff as well to be considered one of its family. 

“ Marcy on us ! ” she rejoined, cheerfully, taking her seat 
behind the urn of steaming coffee, M I should say you did 


52 


UNION DOWN. 


riz airly, Mr. Clavering. You’m growin’ younger every 
blessed day you live. I’ve had to flax round lively to keep up 
with the procession. I thought I’d never get the coffee bilin’, 
and as for the bread, I toasted on it minutes by the clock.” 

“Yet you are just on time, Hannah, for all that,” 
remarked Clara, opening her father’s eggs. 

“Well, Clara, dear, I was brung up to be prompt. My 
mother, long sence jined in the skilestial choir, alias said — 
Hannah, girl, there be nuthin’ like promptness! So I 
spose that’s why I was alias prompt — being a dootiful 
darter.” 

Mr. Clavering laughed, as he frequently did at the say- 
ings and doings of his unconsciously droll housekeeper. 
There was a strong bond of sympathy between them, forged 
by many years of association. * 

“Yes, Hannah,” said he; “you certainly are, in that 
respect, a gem.” 

“Well, sir, I can’t say much as to being a gem,” laughed 
she, blushing; “but, though I p’raps mayn’t be the one to 
say it, I was alias a dootiful darter. Much like Clara here,” 
she quickly added, as if eager to dispel any impressions 
of vanity on her part. 

“You and father seem to suddenly have acquired the 
tongue of flattery,” smiled Clara. 

“ Truth is not flattery, dear,” said Mr. Clavering. “ Too 
much in praise of my daughter cannot be said.” 

“ And that’s gospel truth ! ” flatly ejaculated Hannah ; to 
all of which Clara made no further response than a doubt- 
ful shake of the head. 

Mr. Clavering finished a light breakfast, and, pushing 
away his cup and plate, settled back with a sigh in his 
chair. 

“ Hannah,” said he, after some hesitation, during which 
his daughter eyed him askance; “ Hannah, henceforth we 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 


53 


shall have another among us. This is likely to be the last 
meal we shall enjoy as we now sit.” 

It was strange how this subject moved him. Truly, he 
was much broken, when compared with the urbane gentle- 
man whom Mr. Wiseacre had pictured the previous evening. 
He paused, as if to contain himself, and Hannah took occa- 
sion to blurt cheerily : 

“And I’m glad on it, Mr. Clavering! I’m glad on it for 
your sake. There’s room enough, and to spare, for more’n 
one.” 

“ So there is, Hannah ; so there is. And my boy is 
coming home ; my boy will be with us when next we sit at 
our food. Hannah, I wish my boy to sit yonder. Lay his 
plate there, so that I may see him all the time, so that I 
may witness his enjoyment of my table.” 

There was an indescribable pathos in his voice, and his 
extended hand, with which he indicated the desired location, 
trembled piteously under his re-awakened emotion. 

<r Do not continue, father, dear,” pleaded Clara; for it was 
evident that he was about to speak further. “ Do not agi- 
tate yourself.” 

“I will not, Clara; indeed, I will not,” he replied, briefly 
governing himself. “ But consider what this is to me. 
Remember that I have not seen my boy for more than 
twenty years ; not since he was a tiny child, with curly hair 
and bright, laughing eyes. I have seen him in mind only, 
Clara, day in and out, for over twenty years; and — and 
loved him through all that time, Clara, ever since my — my 
wife forsook me ! ” 

A great sob, no longer to be contained, broke from his 
trembling lips ; and, abruptly bowing his head to the table, 
he wept convulsively. 

There were tears in Clara’s own eyes, when she leaned 
nearer to wind her arms around him. 


54 


UNION DOWN 


“ Dear, dear father, do not yield thus to your emotions,” 
she pleaded, tenderly. “ Remember what you promised me. 
There were to be no more tears, no more weeping.” 

“Land sakes, Mr. Clavering!” exclaimed Hannah, with 
an indescribable expression of mingled pity and alarm. 
“You’ll be makin’ on yourself sick, can-yin’ on like this.” 

He choked back his sobs, and, drawing himself up in his 
chair, dried his cheeks with his napkin. 

“No,” said he, more firmly, looking from one to the 
other. “ I will not make myself ill, yet you shall see no more 
of this. I do not weep from grief alone. Gratitude and 
joy sometimes find expression in tears.” 

“That is so much better, dear father. Let us speak of 
other things.” 

But Randolph Clavering firmly shook his head at his 
smiling daughter. 

“Not yet, Clara,” said he. “I first must have my say. 
You, Hannah, can remember twenty years back, to the time 
when my wife went away and left me. All the town knows 
the tale of my disgrace, the story of her desertion. But it 
is not of her that I would speak. She is dead ! Let her rest 
in peace. Y ou know — both of you should know — that from 
the hour of her departure I have bestowed on her not one 
harsh thought, not one unkind word.” 

“And every soul that knows you, Mr. Clavering, would 
vouch for that,” asserted Hannah. 

“For twenty years,” he continued, without heeding her; 
“I have dreamt of a happiness that has been denied me; 
lived in the solitary hope that one day my boy should be 
restored to my arms ; prayed and hoped — and without one 
word or sign that he was in the land of the living! You 
both saw my joy — joy mingled with sorrow — when, six 
months ago, I received from China the letter informing me 
that my wife was dead, and that at her request my boy 


THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF. 


55 


would return to — no, no, Clara! do not be alarmed, for I 
will weep no more ! He is coming home. My boy is com- 
ing home to-day. Remember, Hannah ; he’s to sit there ! ” 

“Marcy on us, Mr. Clavering! I couldn’t forgit it if I 
tried.” 

“And — and remember this! There must be no mention 
of the past. All that is to be said of the past, I — I alone 
will say to him ! ” 

There was now in his voice a ring which caused Clara to 
stare wonderingly at him, but he did not notice her surprise ; 
and Hannah Hood hastened ta exclaim: 

“Sakes alive, Mr. Clavering! how can you think I’d for- 
git my persition to sech a pass as that?” 

“ I tell you my wishes only that you may not,” he replied, 
with sternness that was strangely foreign to his almost inva- 
riable gentleness. “ I wish no one to speak to my boy of 
the past, or of his mother — my wife! He must return to 
this house, the same as if he had never been estranged. 
That is all — remember ! ” 

He arose abruptly, wiping from his brow a moisture which 
had gathered there in tiny drops, and turned to leave the 
room. 

“Father,” interposed Clara gently; “will you drive to the 
depot to receive him ? ” 

“No — no, dear,” he faltered, pausing doubtfully. “I — 
I feel that the effort would be too much for me. I — I will 
receive my boy here — alone.” 

« Shall I instruct John to go to meet him ?” 

He regarded her strangely for a moment; then replied 
wistfully : 

“No, dear, no; I hardly like for John to go. Clara, I 
wish that you would go to meet my boy.” 

“Why, certainly, dear father, if you wish it.” 

And Clara laughed fondly at bis doubtful hesitation, 


56 


UNION DOWN 


which now made him laugh as well; so Hannah Hood 
laughed also, though it is very doubtful if she knew at what. 

Randolph Clavering returned and bent to kiss his daugh- 
ter, then stepped tremulously through the open French win- 
dow and walked out into the warm sunshine of the veranda, 
eager again to be alone with the past. 


CHAPTER VI. 


MARGARET DAWSON. 

The sun was high in the heavens and the June day- 
grown very warm, when Clara, having performed her few 
household duties, wandered out of doors. 

While not of a nervous temperament, she confessed to 
a feeling of uneasiness for which she could not account, 
it proving unattributable to the near arrival of Manley 
Clavering, and the duty she had accepted, as well as to her 
father’s unusual emotion of the morning. 

A quarter-mile away, and extending some fifty feet into 
the blue waters of the bay, were the ruins of an old wharf. 
Little of the original structure remained, save a number of 
tall spiles bleached white by water and weather, and sev- 
eral huge joiners or girders. The whole was partly filled 
with great yellow rocks, rough with barnacles. These ruins 
were high and dry at low tide, but at the flood all were 
covered save the tallest of the spiles, which then appeared 
not unlike the stiff white fingers of some huge submarine 
monster, pointing heavenward from beneath the sea. 

Over these somewhat hazardous ruins a person was care- 
fully moving. By aid of a field-glass brought from a table 
in the hall, Clara discovered the person to be a woman, and 
she stood to observe her actions. The woman carefully 
picked her way over the uncertain rocks, till, gaining the 
extremity of the ruins, she seated herself upon a low boul- 
der, the water breaking just below her. 

57 


58 


UNION DOWN 


“It is Margaret Dawson, and she has another of her 
death-fits,” thought Clara, entering the house to replace the 
glass. 

Her father was passing through the hall, and lingered to 
say rather tremulously : 

“ Be sure to be ready for the train, Clara. I am going 
for a short walk. It may tend to compose me. I would 
be composed when my boy arrives.” 

“Relieve yourself of all anxiety, father, dear; I will cer- 
tainly anticipate your wishes,” she replied, giving him a 
kiss. 

As Mr. Clavering, taking his cane, left the house by one 
door, his daughter, donning a broad shade-hat bright with 
cherry ribbons, hurried out by an opposite. Walking 
rapidly to the brink of the bluff, she availed herself of a 
steep and narrow path which led downward to the shore, 
and soon she stood on the pebbly beach. Moderating her 
speed in order to regain her breath, somewhat tried by the 
steep descent, she walked in the direction of the ruined 
wharf. It still was some distance away, yet she now could 
easily see the figure of the woman seated at its extremity, 
her elbows on her knees, her chin buried in her palms, her 
gaze bent on the water at her feet. 

Let us leap the space between them. 

The woman was about fifty years old, yet her thin face 
was lined by many wrinkles. They were lines which told 
a story of trouble and care and suffering, rather than those 
which come of years. Her hair was already turned gray, 
and was sadly unkempt, and she was clothed in the shab- 
biest of faded blue wrappers. Carelessness cried out in 
every detail of her aspect. On her head she wore a ribbon- 
less hat, originally made for a man, and part of its crown 
was wanting. Her shoes were buttonless, and a person in 
less constant practice with such could" never have walked in 


MA RGARET DA WSON. 


59 


them. As she sat there, with her dark eyes bent grimly on 
the sea, she presented a far from pleasing picture. 

So absorbed was she in gloomy meditation, that she did 
not notice the approach of Clara from behind ; and, uncon- 
scious that her words would reach another’s ears, she mut- 
tered her thoughts in a tone of most intense and bitter des- 
pondency. 

“ Why not ? The water cannot feel very cold this hot 
day. The struggle would not last long at the longest. 
Some hand — may be his — would drag me out and lay me 
in my grave.” 

“ Would that better your condition, Margaret Dawson ? ” 

The woman sprang up with a low cry of surprise and 
fear ; but an angry fire which had quickly risen in her dark 
eyes vanished instantly, when she turned and saw who had 
spoken so reproachfully from behind her. 

“ Oh, it is you, Clara,” she said mildly; and a faint blush 
softened the dogged expression which died hard from her 
grim features. “You startled me ; I did not hear you com- 
ing. Would that better my condition ? ” 

She colored deeper, looking into the reproving eyes of 
the silent girl ; but the same bitterness was in her voice 
when she repeated Clara’s question, and the thin hand 
trembled with which she pointed at the water breaking below 
them. 

“Would that better my condition, do you ask? Clara 
Clavering, it could not make it much worse!” 

“I feared that you were in this state of mind,” replied 
Clara sorrowfully; “when, from the house, I saw you com- 
ing out here. I hastened here to comfort you.” 

“ Comfort me ! ” The woman trembled visibly. “ Clara, 
you are a good girl — God bless you ! ” 

“And God help you, Margaret Dawson, and keep you 
from such thoughts as those which brought you here.” 


60 


UNION DOWN 


A blush, like that of shame, rose to the woman’s face at 
the grieved and solemn tone of the speaker. 

“You are right and I was wrong, Clara,” she replied 
impulsively, and in some confusion. “I will do better in 
the future. Ah, if I had you constantly with me, I should 
be a better woman than I am.” 

“ Is it because you love me, Margaret ? ” 

“ Who could help loving you?” rejoined the other, with 
subdued intensity of feeling. 

“Then, is not your love so deep that, for my sake, you 
will constrain yourself from these thoughts of death ? ” 

“ So deep ! ” said Margaret Dawson, her eyes bent 
strangely on Clara’s gentle face. “You may never know 
its depth, Clara Clavering. You may never know how I 
appreciate what you have been, and what you are, to me. 
Say no more in reproval ; I will remember your wishes.” 

“Thank you, Margaret,” warmly answered Clara. “I 
do not ask it in return for the little I may have done to aid 
you, but rather for your own sake ; and I am sure your love 
for me is sufficient ” — 

“Peace!” came the appealing interruption. “I have 
confessed my error. Come, let us return to the beach ; let 
us get away from here.” 

She helped Clara over the rough rocks to the shore, and 
together — a striking contrast — they walked along the beach 
in the direction of the high bluff on which rose Randolph 
Clavering’s dwelling, royal in the morning sunlight. 

“How is your father these days?” suddenly asked Mrs. 
Dawson, after several moments of silence. “ I hope that 
his health is as good as usual.” 

“Quite so, Margaret, I thank you,” said Clara, stooping 
to pick a white shell from the sand. “But he is getting to 
be quite an elderly man, you know.” 

“ True, true, Clara. We all grow old quite as fast as we 


MARGARET DA WSON. 


61 


Could wish. I would be very sorry to hear that he is fail- 
ing. Good men are rare in this world of ours, and Mr. 
Clavering is so very generous and good — none more so ! ” 

Theie was in Margaret Dawson’s tone some quality 
which caused Clara to regard her with surprise ; yet it was 
so subtile as to be hardly definable, and the woman’s grim 
countenance appeared quite devoid of guile. 

“Yes, my father is quite as well as usual,” Clara slowly 
repeated, wondering why she should have been so 
impressed; then added, more easily — “but he is somewhat 
agitated this morning, for we expect Manley Clavering to 
arrive at home by the coming train.” 

“ Manley Clavering ! ” 

“Yes. Do you not know whom I mean ? His son.” 

“ Then he has a son ? ” 

Clara, who had walked a little in advance of the other, had 
failed to observe the brief expression of amazement which 
had shot athwart Margaret Dawson’s face. She replied: 

“To be sure he has. Did you never hear the story of 
his wife’s desertion ? She ran away from him more than 
twenty years ago, taking with her their only child, a boy of 
about a year.” 

“ Now that you speak of the affair, I think I do remem- 
ber to have heard something of it, long ago. It occurred, 
however, before I came to live in this town.” 

They walked on in silence for a time, each engrossed in 
thought ; and they nearly had reached the base of the bluff 
where the path made upward, when the elder, stopping 
short, laid a restraining hand on Clara’s arm. 

“ So his son is coming home,” she said slowly. “ What 
about his wife ? ” 

“ She is dead,” replied Clara, wondering why this woman 
spoke so oddly. 

“ Dead ! ” 


62 


UNION DOWN 


“Yes; she died a year ago, in China, of the plague.” 

Margaret Dawson turned pale. 

“ Oh, poor thing ! poor woman ! ” she cried, in a tone so 
freighted with compassion that Clara, never lost to her 
father’s long suffering, took exceptions, and rejoined a little 
resentfully : 

“ Possibly the fate was somewhat merited ! ” 

“Merited!” exclaimed the other, drawing back in sur- 
prise at the gentle girl’s Unusual show of feeling. “ Why 
merited ? ” 

“Why? Can you ask why, Margaret Dawson? Did she 
not cruelly embitter her husband’s life ? Has she not 
bowed him in sorrow and disgrace ? Did she not steal 
from him his only child, and desert him for another? 
Unnatural wife ! ” 

Margaret Dawson had turned her back upon the impetu- 
ous speaker, and was gazing across the sea. Her face, 
during Clara’s condemnatory utterances, underwent many 
changes ; from pale to red, then again to paleness, while 
her grim features evinced a spirit of anger only wilfully 
governed. For a moment she did not reply ; then, turning 
with outward calmness, she said, rather reprovingly — 

“ I never heard you speak so unkindly, Clara.” 

The speaker’s gentleness was augmented by her very 
aspect. It sent a flood of crimson to Clara’s cheeks and 
quelled her to momentary silence. 

“Remember,” continued Margaret Dawson; “that it is 
not for us to usurp judgment. To God alone are human 
actions a revelation of the human heart. Clara, never 
speak unkindly of a woman. Heaven knows, good women 
should sustain one another, if they would withstand the 
wickedness of men ! ” 

“Why do you speak thus to me, Margaret?” faltered 
Clara, still blushing deeply. 


MARGARET DA WSON. 


63 


“Because you are a woman, Clara, and because I know 
what it is to suffer at the hands of man, and to be near 
death’s door. I would not like ill to be said of me when 
I am dead — least of all would I like it to be said by a 
woman. If Randolph Clavering’s wife is dead, God save 
her! If she sinned, God have mercy on her! Death 
should soften our resentment, Clara. For your own sake, 
dear, think with pity of your father’s wife ; and if you 
speak of Manley Clavering’s mother, speak not in resent- 
ment. Better far not to speak at all. She was a woman, 
like yourself.” 

The color in Clara’s cheeks had deepened steadily 
under the rebuke so gently offered, and a faint moisture was 
beginning to show in her tender eyes. She answered 
tremulously : 

“ I did not mean to be unjust, yet I do not think 
I fully understand you. What can you possibly know of 
Marion Clavering?” 

“Nothing,” was the immediate rejoinder. “Do not 
apply my words to her in particular, for I spoke of the 
world of women. So would you speak, Clara, had you seen 
the world as I have seen it. But you have reached the 
pathway up the bluff, and I will leave you. You were very 
kind to come to me. I am comforted by having seen and 
spoken with you. You are a good girl — may I kiss you 
before we part ? ” 

Moved almost to tears by the subdued sadness sounding 
in the woman’s voice, Clara pressed her fresh young lips to 
those of the speaker; when Margaret Dawson, turning 
with strange abruptness, murmured a faint farewell and 
hurried on along the beach, quickly to disappear around a 
projection of the bluff. 

More than ever disturbed in mind, Clara ascended the 
steep pathway and returned to the house. The hour, how- 


64 


UNION DOWN. 


ever, was drawing near when she must go to the train ; and 
in the occupation of making ready, her uneasiness, for 
which she could imagine no reasonable cause, gradually 
wore away. 

Meanwhile, Margaret Dawson, her faded skirts carelessly 
dragging about her feet, waded on through the yielding 
sand and continued her way around the bluff. Her inten- 
tion was to skirt the ascent, and, by crossing the meadows, 
to return home by the way of the road. When she left the 
beach and climbed the slight acclivity to the green fields, 
she came suddenly upon Mr. Clavering, just returning 
home. 

He did not immediately observe her, and, when he did, it 
was like seeing one suddenly arisen out of the earth. He 
was startled, yet he greeted her with habitual politeness, 
and inquired concerning her health. 

“ I am passing well for an old woman, sir,” she replied, 
oddly, and a bright red spot began to glow just beneath 
either of her dark eyes. 

“That is good, Mrs. Dawson,” said he, bowing approv- 
ingly. “ I am glad to hear it.” 

He had paused doubtfully, hoping she would move on ; 
but instead she leaned against a raihfence near by, and 
gazed steadily at him through a pair of rather disagreeable 
eyes. 

“You are weary,” he remarked, rather nervously. 
“ Have you taken a long walk ? ” 

“Yes — all the way from the hovel in which I dwell,” 
she answered grimly, and wiped the moisture from her 
brow with the back of her hand. 

Mr. Clavering liked neither her action, her words, nor 
her aspect, yet he smiled. 

“ Quites a walk, indeed,” said he, leaning on his cane. 
“We elderly persons cannot endure what we once could.” 


MARGARET DA WSON. 


65 


“True, sir! Were we called upon to suffer now, what 
once we may have suffered, it would kill us,” replied the 
woman, with uncomfortable gravity. 

“ So it would, indeed,” admitted Mr. Clavering, fain to 
depart or to turn the subject. “You are getting along 
well at home, Mrs. Dawson ? ” 

“Fairly well — thanks to your kindness and Miss 
Clara’s.” 

“ Pray do not mention my kindness, Mrs. Dawson. 
Though I am always glad to assist the worthy, I greatly 
fear that most of my bestowals are impelled through my 
daughter. Have you seen her recently ? ” 

“ I parted from her only a few minutes ago,” smiled 
Mrs. Dawson oddly. “ She is a good girl.” 

“Yes, yes; none better.” 

“ I wonder much, sir, though very likely I should not 
speak of it, that she has never married. She will be an 
heiress some day, sir, will she not? — when you and I are 
turned to dust! ” 

Coming even from such a woman as Margaret Dawson, 
the remark was strikingly rude. Randolph Clavering 
winced and turned pale. He had no wish to contemplate 
his approaching disintegration. There was, moreover, in 
the grim countenance of the woman an expression which 
rendered him more and more uncomfortable. 

“Why do you speak like that?” he demanded impa- 
tiently ; but immediately added, as if half-ashamed to show 
feeling : “ But you are right, Mrs. Dawson. We none of 

us know what a day may bring forth. It is all in being 
ready. Yes, Clara will inherit a part of my fortune, a 
worthy portion, and the balance will go to my boy. Pie is 
coming home to-day — my boy!” 

His voice had become ineffably fond and tender, and, as 
if this reference to his son drew him homeward, he turned 


66 


UNION DOWN 


to go. Margaret Dawson eyed him steadily and moved 
along by the fence. 

“ So Miss Clara told me,” said she. “ He must be quite 
a man by this time.” 

“Yes, yes; nearly twenty-four.” 

“And a fine young man he will be, Mr. Clavering, if 
he only takes after his father; a noble, generous man, 
indeed.” 

Randolph Clavering did not fancy the compliment, but 
he bowed politely and advanced to lower a rail of the fence, 
over which she wished to pass. She blushed slightly when 
she raised her shabby skirts and stepped into the adjoining 
meadow; then turned and said gravely, but in a tone so 
unusual that it fairly thrilled her aged hearer : 

“ Thank you, sir. You are as gallant as you were at 
forty — or, rather, as I would imagine you to have been! 
Miss Clara tells me that your wife is dead,” she quickly 
added, with a delicate touch of sadness. “ I was very sorry 
to learn of that.” 

Mr. Clavering’s eyes moistened, so unexpected was this 
sympathy, and his voice trembled when he replied : 

“Yes, Mrs. Dawson, my wife is dead. I, too, am sorry 
for her, although my remembrance of the past is not alto- 
gether an agreeable one. The sun is very warm. Permit 
me to bid you good-morning.” 

'Margaret Dawson bowed her reply and went on her way ; 
but when she had gained the fence dividing the meadows 
from the sandy highway, she paused to rest awhile on its 
uppermost rail, and to gaze back at the old gentleman 
laboriously climbing the distant hill. 

“ So Marion Clavering is dead, is she ? ” muttered she, 
her face expressive of peculiar doubts. “ I want to know ! 
She must have been a wretch, as Clara says, to desert such 
a man as he was at forty. And Manley Clavering is com- 


MARGARET DA WSON. 


67 


ing home, eh? I wonder how he will compare with his 
father. I can hardly wait to learn ! ” 

And with a discordant laugh she threw her feet over the 
rail whereon she sat, and, dropping to the sandy walk, hur- 
ried away, apparently oblivious to the increasing heat of 
approaching midday. 


CHAPTER VII. 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 

The morning was far advanced when Clara, seated alone 
in the top-buggy, and behind a horse whose glossy black 
coat had been groomed to brilliancy, drove through the 
long, shady lane to the main road, which led to the depot 
a mile or more away. Her blue morning-dress had been 
changed for one of light gray material, and the broad hat 
with cherry ribbons had given place to the most bewitching 
of little bonnets, which enhanced, even more, the charm of 
her lovely face. She was somewhat flushed, and felt a little 
nervous and excited — not unnaturally, when her mission is 
considered. 

An abrupt turn of the road brought her in sight of the 
Wiseacre homestead, by which she had to pass. Consult- 
ing her watcn, she found that she had time to spare, and she 
resolved to stop for a few words with her friend Naomi. 
As she drew near, one person only was visible about the 
premises. 

At a little distance from his angular dwelling, in the shade 
of the poplars and close upon the brink of his terrace-like 
lawn, Mr. Marcus Wiseacre was seated in his own commodi- 
ous chair. His great bald head was bare and shining; his 
neckerchief had been removed and lay carefully folded over 
his knee; his spotless white shirt had been opened at the 
throat, to permit the air more readily to reach the convolu- 
tions of fat beneath his dimpled chin ; his wristbands had 

68 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


been turned back above the elbows; his huge limbs were 
extended full-length before him ; his fair, fleshy hands sup- 
ported a book which, if of theme proportionate with its 
bulk, must have been extraordinarily profound: he was 
motionless, breathlessly absorbed, his tunnel-holes never in 
more earnest operation. 

When she arrived at a position in the road nearly oppo- 
site, Clara drew upon the reins and stopped about twenty 
feet from where Mr. Wiseacre was seated, Dor several 
moments she regarded him in amused silence, thinking that 
perhaps he would chance to look up and observe her; but 
he remained as motionless as if animation were entirely 
suspended. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Wiseacre,” she at length called; 
which effort being productive of no visible effect upon that 
corpulent gentleman, she ventured to repeat her greeting 
more loudly. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Wiseacre!” 

Mr. Wiseacre did not stir. 

At this second failure Clara broke into a rippling laugh, 
and, drawing out from the road until the wheel touched the 
low embankment, she reached forth with the whip and glee- 
fully shook it above Mr. Wiseacre’s bald pate, so close, 
indeed, as quite probably to have touched it, at the same 
time crying vociferously : 

“ Good-morning ! good-morning, Mr. Wiseacre ! Good- 
morning ! ” 

Whether Mr. Wiseacre would have continued oblivious to 
his surroundings, and but for Dame Nature’s intervention 
have gone on reading perhaps till doomsday, appears at 
least debatable ; but he had reached the bottom of the page, 
and in moving to turn the leaf he probably by chance 
observed that he was the object of an address. No mo- 
mentary confusion embarrassed him. He dexterously made 


10 


UNION DOWN. 


a dog’s-ear of the leaf between his fingers, rested the closed 
book upon his huge thigh, inhaled a long breath, and with 
beaming countenance delivered, in a round and jocund tone, 
the following misty effusion : 

“Roseate Aurora, flinging back with taper fingers her 
flowing veil and opening wide the flood-gates of morning, 
never presented a more seductive picture than that now 
impressed on the receptive membrane of my most-favored 
eye. Fairest goddess, condescend to make happy my rude 
hand, and allow me to aid you from your chariot.” 

He made a feeble and vain attempt to rise from his chair, 
but Clara quickly declined, and he instantly relapsed into 
his late state of solid comfort. 

“No, I thank you, Mr. Wiseacre,” laughed she, blushing 
roseate indeed. “ I will not alight.” 

“Unhappy me, to be denied so pleasurable an anticipa- 
tion,” he rejoined, in melting tones; when, abruptly discov- 
ering himself to be rather en deshabille, he deliberately began 
to readjust his collar and neckerchief, saying, with undis- 
turbed serenity: 

“The torridity of the weather — or, more precisely, the 
oscillatory vibrations of the ethereal molecules are of such 
extreme velocity and amplitude, as to elevate my normal 
temperature to a degree incompatible with unnecessary 
adornments. Briefly, Clara, I am warm! You say you 
will not alight.” 

“No, I thank you, Mr. Wiseacre. Is Naomi in the house ? ,k 

“Naomi — my beloved first-born — my pride!” cried he, 
with a self-indulgent outburst of paternal affection. “ I am 
under the impression, Clara, that she is in the sanctitude of 
her chamber. She arrays herself, I believe, for a visit to 
town, whither she journeys with a predetermination to pur- 
chase sundry paraphernalia for my — yes, my better half! 
Is it your pleasure to see her?” 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


71 


“ If you please, Mr. Wiseacre. I, too, am going to town, 
and perhaps Naomi will like to ride,” laughed Clara; 
whereupon Mr. Wiseacre also laughed, most unctuously. 

He did not rise to call his daughter. He turned his head 
as far toward the house as his short neck would allow, and, 
with no apparent effort, roared loudly: 

“ Naomi ! ” 

“I think sh^will hear that,” gasped Clara, catching back 
the horse, which had been startled by the thunderous noise, 
now reverberated from the near hillside. 

“I think so,” was the bland rejoinder. “I meant so, 
surely ; and I venture to predict that she will appear 
anon. By the way, Clara, while I recognize Dame Rumor’s 
many errors, may I be permitted to ask concerning the 
veraciousness of her report that my dear friend Clavering’s 
son is expected home ? ” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Wiseacre. Manley Clavering is expected 
this very day, and I am on my way to meet him.” 

“I rejoice to hear it, Clara; I rejoice to hear it. Say to 
my dear Clavering, that his paternal joy is echoed in his 
friend Wiseacre’s affectionate heart; that his gratitude to 
the All-merciful Father is augmented by an analogical sen- 
timent permeating my sympathetic breast. Say that to him 
from me, Clara.” 

“I will, Mr. Wiseacre, thank you,” answered Clara, des- 
perately. “I will — or words to that effect.” 

“ Ah, well, Clara, words to that effect will answer,” was 
the gracious* rejoinder. 

At this moment Naomi came from the house and joined 
them. She was delighted to ride, and Mr. Wiseacre arose 
with ponderous gallantry to assist her into the carriage. 

“Good by, my love,” he said tenderly, in reply to her 
word of thanks ; and, standing close upon the edge of the 
bank, his hands raised high above his head, his little eyes 


72 


UNION DOWN 


rolled upward, he added benignly, as they drove laughingly 
away : “ God bless you both, my children ! God bless your 
innocent young hearts ! ” 

He gazed fondly after them a moment, then turned 
slowly about and waddled back to his chair. He 
again removed and folded his neckerchief, undid his col- 
lar and turned back his cuffs, took his book from the 
lawn where he had placed it, smoothed the dog’s-ear from 
the leaf, and in an instant was oblivious to all- — save 
the twin streams of ideal matter which were pouring 
through the tunnel-holes into his marvelously commo- 
dious head. 

“Oh, dear!” ejaculated Naomi, as the glossy black horse 
dashed proudly down the road. “I am so warm! I saw 
you when you drove up, and I hurried to join you. What a 
time you had making father hear.” 

“So I had,” laughed Clara. “It was very funny. I did 
not imagine I was observed. What a book-worm he is.” 

“ Don’t mention it. He does little else than read= — but 
he is the dearest and kindest of fathers, for all that.” 

“I should say so. I never heard of his being angry.” 

“I do not think he ever was,” said Naomi, with demure 
fondness. 

“Nor I,” smiled Clara. “I am real glad I arrived before 
you started. It will spare you the walk. Where are you 
going?” 

“To the milliner’s. Mother is having a new dress, and 
I am deputized to select the trimmings. Shall you return 
alone ? ” 

“No, dear,” said Clara; “for I am going to meet my 
brother.” 

“Oh!” and Naomi voiced a delighted little scream. 
“You don’t imagine how odd that sounded — your brother! 
I am so very glad, Clara, dear ; and I am sure he will be 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


73 


just as nice as yourself. I thought you looked sweeter than 
usual this morning — if that were possible.” 

“Oh, Naomi, what an idea! you to flatter me.” 

“Not at all,” replied Naomi, laughing at the gentle 
reproof in Clara’s blushing face. “You do, indeed.” 

“Well,” commented Clara, with an air of sublime resigna- 
tion; “one must manage to create a favorable impression 
on one’s relatives at least.” 

“True — and you could not avoid it even if you tried.” 

“There, that will do, dear! exclaimed Clara, laughing. 
“I will expect you by to-morrow at the house on the bluff. 
I wish to introduce you to Manley Clavering. Then you 
will see how speedily I shall pale in your queenly presence.” 

“A truce!” cried Naomi, blushing deeply. “That is 
altogether too far-fetched.” 

And then both laughed gaily and relapsed into brief 
silence, both thinking of the young stranger who at that 
moment was speeding toward them over the iron rails, 
and who was destined to bring into the circle of both their 
innocent lives so much of pleasure and so much of pain. 

Clara left her friend at the milliner’s door, and, after 
repeating the invitation to call next day, drove rapidly to 
the depot. It still wanted several minutes to train time 
when she alighted from the carriage and entered the 
ladies’ waiting-room. 

Save the usual employees there were few persons about 
the depot, and these chiefly the habitual loungers who, for 
want of worthier pastime, wandered from their benches and 
barrels in the village store to see the train come and go, and 
then sauntered lazily back to gossip of the latest arrivals. 

At a cloudy mirror on the wall, Clara indulged in a last 
look at herself; and readjusted her bonnet, the set of which 
the wavy glass persisted in demoralizing with her every 
movement. Then she turned away, blushing at her vanity, 


74 


UNION DOWN 


and excusing it by the propriety of appearing at best 
in her stranger brother’s eyes. She was somewhat agitated, 
and paced nervously the deserted and resounding room, 
wondering what this brother was to be like, and vainly striv- 
ing to still the rapid beating of her heart. 

But all this was not for long. The shrill scream of the 
locomotive was heard in the distance, and a minute later the 
great iron steed, wheezing and breathing like an exhausted 
thing of life, rushed past the depot and the train came to a 
stand-still. The long anticipated moment had arrived. 

A little pale, Clara stepped bravely out upon the plat- 
form, just as a young man in a light-gray suit and straw hat, 
who carried in his hand a carefully rolled umbrella and a 
small portmanteau, alighted from the car. 

He looked quite as handsome then, as he had looked 
that morning nearly five months before, when, pacing care- 
lessly amidships the Bounding Wave, he had watched the 
crew make trim. He threw a swift glance over the plat- 
form, then turned and saw Clara standing near the open 
door, roseate indeed under the warm blush which had suf- 
fused her lovely cheeks when her eyes met his. 

Such a thrill as he had never known ran through his 
veins, and a flush, deeper than was hers, crimsoned his 
face. For an instant he stood irresolute, when Clara, 
quickly advancing, said, half in affirmation, half in 
inquiry : 

“This is Mr. Clavering?” 

Then she blushed harder than ever. 

Something very like a touch of moisture showed in the 
young man’s grave dark eyes, but he quickly raised his hat, 
and in some confusion replied : 

“Yes, that is my name. I hardly expected to be 
received here by anyone, least of all by ” — 

“Clara Clavering, your sister,” interposed she, preclud- 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


75 


ing the compliment which had trembled on his lips. “ I am 
very glad to welcome you.” 

She had regained her composure and added to his confu- 
sion. Her gentle greeting had been almost grave, and, 
when she offered her hand to this fine-appearing young 
man, her thoughts reverted like a flash to her beloved father, 
at that moment tremulously pacing his room in the house on 
the bluff, and her heart was filled with joy for his sake. 
For outwardly this stranger brother surpassed her happiest 
dream. 

Manley Clavering — we shall know him no more by the 
name of Raymond — took her fair, warm hand in his, and 
looked down into the tender eyes in which it seemed that 
tears must shortly show. He pressed it reverently, and 
somehow felt suddenly glad that his compliment had not 
found expression, the commonplace words must have 
sounded so flat and stale to her. It required but a moment, 
but a glance ; but a glance only may reveal the soul of a 
woman, a moment only shape the destiny of a man. 

“Thank you very much,” he responded quickly; then, 
carelessly tossing his head, as if by the action to dispel some 
not precisely agreeable thought, he broke into that low, 
musical, irresistibly pleasing laugh of his, and added: “To 
tell the truth, I feel like a school-boy speaking his first piece. 
Why pretend that I am not embarrassed ? Let me break the • 
ice at once, Clara — I may call you so, may I not, since you 
are my sister ? And my name must be familiar to you, so 
call me Manley from this out and have done with it. And 
lead me home, Clara, like a great baby who is lost; for I 
confess to feeling much like a cat in a strange garret.” 

“That long speech surely should break the ice,” laughed 
Clara, less at his words than at his eager, genial smile. 
“Come this way; the carriage is here.” 

“Lead on! I’ll follow thee — as Hamlet says to the 


16 


UNION DOWN. 


Ghost,” he answered lightly ; and together they passed to the 
rear of the depot. 

“ Hamlet is the name of our horse,” smiled Clara, looking 
up at him as they walked. 

“ So called because of his inky coat, I take it.” 

“Yes, and here he is.” 

“Indeed ! ” and Manley sprang down the steps to pat him 
on the neck, as he freed him from the ring to which he had 
been tied. “ So you are Hamlet, are you ? And a fine, 
noble fellow you are ! We shall be great friends in the 
future, shall we not ? ” 

And the grand brute turned his fathomless dark eyes on 
the young stranger, and energetically nodded a response 
to that warm, friendly greeting. 

“Do you know, Clara,” Manley cried, with enthu- 
siasm, his flushed face turned suddenly to the happy, 
blushing girl upon the platform; “that I really would 
like to hug him round the neck. I am so overjoyed 
by sight of one whom I may feel is near to me, one 
who perhaps will truly love me — even though it be but a 
horse. ” 

“There is one, at least, who will truly love you,” Clara 
said gently, referring to Randolph Clavering. 

“One only? asked Manley, pointedly. 

“I said one, at least,” she replied, in some confusion; at 
which Manley laughed gaily. 

“I certainly shall strive to merit the love of all — but I 
am getting sentimental! Let me assist you.” 

He sprang up the steps, light, graceful and elastic, his 
every movement evincing the buoyancy of his nature, and 
gracefully handed his sister into the carriage. 

“You must inform me where to drive,” cried he, seizing 
the reins and turning the horse with an abruptness that must 
have been startling. “It is many years since my eyes — an 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


77 


infant’s eyes, Clara — viewed these scenes; and — am I on 
the right track? ” 

“ Quite so,” answered Clara. “Take the first turn to the 
left, and then keep straight away.” 

The horse, nerved by the sense of an unfamiliar hand, 
was speeding down the long avenue, cutting out a tremen- 
dous pace and leaving great clouds of dust to roll up behind. 
The loungers at the depot gazed after them, and, with innate 
stupidity revealed in their heavy eyes, wondered moodily — 

“ Ef thet ’ere were the gait gen’rally trotted by Randolph 
Clavering’s long lost son.” 

“It was very kind of you to come to meet me,” said 
Manley, as they entered the main highway. 

“Not at all so,” replied Clara, rather grave that he had 
not as yet so much as referred to his father. “ Moreover, it 
was your father’s wish.” 

“ So I think you said,” he replied, with a peculiar little 
smile. “ Do you know, Clara, it seems very odd to me to 
think of meeting my father? Only recently did I learn 
that he is living. Clara, tell me all about him.” 

She was eager enough to do so, and what she told him of 
Randolph Clavering’s health, of the longing with which he 
had awaited his son’s return, of the nature of the man as 
she knew him, may readily be imagined and needs no record 
here. 

Ere she had finished, Manley Clavering’s face, grown red 
at first, had become as white as marble ; and for several 
minutes following her recital he remained silent, gazing 
gravely at the robe across his knees. 

“Dear Clara,” he at length replied, in a voice so tremu- 
lous that she turned aside her face to hide her gentle emo- 
tion; “I am both glad and sorry to hear these things. 
Sorry that his health is not what I have hoped, and glad to 
feel that I may be a source of happiness to him in his 


UNION- DOWN 


78 

declining years. He must be quite an old gentleman, 
Clara.” 

She turned and looked at him in some surprise. 

“ Did not your mother tell you?” she asked impulsively; 
when, suddenly recalling her father’s injunction, she hast- 
ened to add: “Yes, he is well along in years; he is past 
sixty.” 

“My mother told me very little of the past,” said Manley. 
“She informed me” — 

“ Pardon,” gently interposed Clara, conscientiously feeling 
that she should not permit him to voluntarily broach the 
forbidden topic. “ I wish you would not tell me what she 
may have said — at least, not until after you have seen 
father. It is his wish. And, Manley,” she added, her art- 
less eyes pleading to his ; “ I beg that, when you meet him, 
you will remember the circumstances, and strive to soothe 
his emotion and govern your own.” 

Manley Clavering’s face turned scarlet when her gentle 
voice pronounced his name. He averted his head, as if 
unable to endure her tender, earnest gaze ; and unobserved 
he made a rapid, almost impatient little gesture, given 
impulse by some poignant thought, possibly a regret. But 
he smiled a moment later, and replied very tenderly : 

“Be assured that I will be discreet, Clara; that I will 
obey your every wish. Why do you blush?” he laughed 
fondly. “ Is it strange that a brother should cleave to a 
dear sister’s wishes?” 

“Not at all,” replied Clara, through whom his tender- 
ness had sent a thrill. “Am I T indeed, blushing?” 

“Yes, and — but attribute it to the weather, which is 
decidedly warm,” diverted he. “I am driving properly?” 

“Quite so, and we are nearing home. It is just beyond 
the great hill which rises yonder.” 

“ Indeed ! and then we shall come upon a tasty little farm- 


MANLE Y CL A VERING. 


79 


house, with a barn and a garden and” — he stopped abrupt- 
ly the wording of such a picture, for Clara was regarding 
him in mute surprise. “I am wrong?” laughed he. 

“Is it possible that you do not know?” queried she. 
“We live in the house on the bluff.” 

“The house on the bluff!” exclaimed Manley, with 
rather nervous gaiety. “And what, my dear Clara, can I 
possibly know of the house on the bluff, never to the best 
of my remembrance having seen it? My life has been 
passed far away over the blue ocean, a part of which you 
may see yonder.” 

“Well, I did not know. I thought” — She was about to 
remark of what his mother might have told him, and 
abruptly refrained; but he, with rather anxious counte- 
nance, quickly demanded : 

“You thought what, Clara? Why do you not finish? 
You thought what?” 

“That perhaps your mother had told you,” said she, 
scarcely knowing how to resist his importunity. 

He laughed again that odd, melodious laugh of his, and 
replied slowly, more easily : 

“No, Clara, she never told me. She never so much as 
mentioned the house on the bluff. She told me but little 
of her early life.” 

Clara did not immediately reply, and the man by her 
side eyed her furtively in silence. He thought he had 
never met a more lovable person, never seen a more 
attractive face ; yet she seemed somewhat reserved concern- 
ing the past, and he vaguely wondered if there were events 
of which he was ignorant. Clara abruptly broke his train 
of thought by crying, as they came in sight of the high 
gables above the distant trees : 

“There is the house, Manley. Turn into the lane on 
the right.” 


80 


UNION DOWN. 


There was no need of this instruction, for the horse had 
already turned and was trotting rapidly along the shady 
avenue toward the sea. Manley leaned forward to gaze 
intently at the imposing residence which soon came into 
complete view. His eyes opened wider. A slow paleness 
crept over his face even to his lips, which began to tremble 
slightly; while the hand which held the reins shook under 
a brief nervous thrill. 

Then, suddenly, his color returned in a deep, burning 
flush ; his lips were compressed abruptly, and an expression 
of willful resolution was briefly manifest in his glowing 
features. The wheels grated harshly in the gravel drive- 
way, then stopped at the foot of the steps which led to the 
veranda. 

Manley sprang down almost impetuously and helped his 
sister to the ground. 

“ Remember! ” she murmured softly, her face quite pale. 

“Yes, Clara — dear, dear Clara! Go before and tell 
him I am here ! ” 

The words broke from him in a low tone of passionate 
entreaty. In a sort of frenzy he pressed her fair, soft hand 
in both of his ; and when, with a gasp and a quick respon- 
sive heart-leap, she drew timidly away from his wildly 
earnest eyes and hurried up the steps, trembling under 
such feelings as she had never known, he again turned 
deathly pale, with a look of indescribable pain distorting 
his handsome face, and muttered, hoarsely, under his 
breath : 

“ Merciful God ! who would have dreamt this ? ” 

He appeared like one consumed by a terrible fear, like 
one impelled to fly from the place as if from a pestilence — 
then he saw her beckoning to him from the open door. 

He obeyed another impulse — an impulse which shaped 
his whole future. He rushed up the steps, trembling, his 


MANLEY CLAVERING. 


81 


face like marble, his hands eagerly extended toward her 
who had come like a vision of love into his life ; and she 
led him tenderly over the threshold, her gentle murmur 
turning to fire the very blood within him : 

“Manley, dear — remember!” 


I 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FATHER AND SON. 

The drawn curtains excluded the glare of the midday 
sun. The stillness of the room was broken only by the^ 
occasional sigh of the man himself, and the faint, far-away 
notes of the birds outside. Seated alone in the library, 
Randolph Clavering heard the carriage when it rolled 
along the gravel driveway, heard as one hears in a dream 
the impatient stamp of the horse, awaiting a familiar hand 
to lead him to the stable. 

But Randolph Clavering did not rise to rush forth in 
eager greeting of the son for whom he had yearned through 
so many piteous years. He waited, now, as he had waited 
ever since he heard the distant locomotive’s whistle, which 
informed him that the train had arrived — waited with a 
look like that of death upon his refined, aristocratic feat- 
ures; waited with trembling heart, and with shaking hands 
nervously clenched between his khees. When a man has 
arrived at this man’s years, such a meeting is not easily 
contemplated and sustained. 

The sudden grating of the wheels outside rasped his 
every nerve. He shuddered violently, raised his bowed 
head, shaken as if by palsy, and fixed his fearful gaze upon 
the doorway to the hall. 

Entering from the bright sunlight, Clara stopped abruptly 
on the threshold, startled by his hueless countenance, its 
ghastliness augmented by the subdued light of the room. 

82 


FA THER AND SON. 


83 


“ Father ! you are ill ! she cried, springing in alarm 
toward him; but he waved her back, smiling faintly, his 
hand pressed above his heart, and said, with the slightest 
touch of irritation : 

“No, no, Clara; I am not. I assure you I am not ill. 
Only a little moved. You — you did not return alone?” 

His. voice rose with increased intensity to the question ; 
and, failing in an involuntary effort to rise, his eyes sought 
again the open door. 

“ No, not alone, dear father. He has come at last and 
awaits only your pleasure,” she replied anxiously, and laid 
her hand on his brow, as if his voice even did not assure 
her that those ghastly features were not deathly cold. 

He thrust her fretfully away, but an expression of relief 
had crossed his ashy countenance. 

“There is some wine on the table,” said he, in a whisper. 
“ Pour me a glass.” 

She obeyed him, and held the liquor to his lips, softly 
begging him to be calm. He drained the glass in a swal- 
low, then cried with a sort of willful resolution : 

“I will be — I am calm! Send him to me! Stay one 
moment, Clara. Tell me first what he is like.” 

He was himself too agitated to notice the flood of color 
which surged to Clara’s cheeks, or to remark the fervency 
of her reply. 

“ He is all that one can wish, dear father ; all that my 
father can wish ! ” 

His eyes brightened and he cried abruptly : 

“ Do you say so — you ! Send him to me at once ! ” 

But when he was alone again, his brow clouded and he 
fell to muttering huskily, fearfully : 

“God grant it! All that I can wish — God grant that 
may be true ! ” 

And when Clara led her brother into the room and left 


84 


UNION DOWN. 


him there, softly closing the door behind her, Randolph 
Clavering sat with his head bowed in his hands and did 
not hear. He was praying as never before he had prayed. 

Quite as pale as the other, Manley stood motionless for 
several moments, and gazed curiously at the bowed figure 
in the chair. There was, in its attitude of almost pitiable 
humility, in that gray head and slight, tremulous form, 
something which seemed to surprise and ease him. He 
advanced abruptly and his step was heard. 

The father raised his head and his gaze fell upon the 
young man. A low, sobbing cry broke from his lips. He 
struggled to his feet, tottered forward, his arms extended, 
his lips quivering in an almost vain effort to speak the 
words of welcome which his heart impelled. 

“ Manley ? Manley — my boy ! ” 

A spell, which the sight of that aged face and tottering 
form seemed to cast upon the young man, was instantly 
broken by the feeble, piteous cry. He sprang forward and 
caught in strong embrace the trembling man, pressing him 
to his breast, patting him warmly on the back, and crying 
in kindliest tones of tender encouragement : 

“ There, my father ! my dear father ! Contain yourself 
like a man. Don’t give way to your feelings. I am here 
at last — here where you wish. The hardest moment is 
past and all is well, my father; all is well. Remember that 
we both are men — don’t forget that. Here, take my hand 
and stand off a little — so! and look at me, squarely in the 
face, dear father, and speak the welcome that overflows 
your heart. Remember — we both of us are men ! ” 

He placed one hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and 
holding him away a little looked him smilingly in the face. 
Randolph Clavering, trembling from head to foot, with 
tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, yielded as did 
all others to the influence of that strong, genial voice, to 


FA THER AND SON. 


85 


the fascination of those magnetic dark eyes ; and wringing 
the hand which had clasped his own, breaking into a nerv- 
ous, hysterical laugh of mingled joy and relief, he cried in 
tones estranged from his lips through many years : 

“ Right, my boy ! Right, Manley ; we both are men ! 
Thank God, I find in you the son for whom I have so long 
hoped and prayed! Welcome — God alone knows how 
welcome ! ” 

He was struggling hard against the tide of his emotion, 
but Manley Clavering’s features were as calm and cold as a 
frozen sea. Only the sustained pressure of his strong 
hand, the tenderness which thrilled his deeply mellow 
voice, evinced emotion. 

“Dear father,” he said, urging him to a chair and drop- 
ping to his knee before him. “ I, too, know how warm is 
my welcome. I know what a void in your life has been 
made by my absence. I know what you have suffered, how 
you have yearned for my return, what happiness my coming 
gives you. Clara has told me all. For her sake and foi 
yours I am striving to make this meeting easy. Come, 
smile upon me and subdue your tears. Speak again in 
your own fatherly tone, and know that I am here never 
again to leave you.” 

“ True, Manley ! never again, my boy,” was the choked 
response; and Mr. Clavering tremulously wiped the tears 
from his eyes, to gaze most fondly on the face upturned to 
his. “ I am happy indeed, my boy, and I feel that you are 
assured of it without words of mine. What a fine, noble 
young man you are ! You shall see no more of my 
unmanly tears.” 

“Such tears are not unmanly, my dear father; and if I 
do not weep, it is not that I am the less happy and grateful. 
I promised Clara I would govern my emotion.” 

“ Ever-thoughtful Clara ! ” cried her father, divining her 


86 


UNION DOWN. 


solicitude ; then laying his hands gently on Manley’s head, 
he added fervently : “ God be praised that I am blest 
with two such children.” 

“ Shall I not call her, dear father ? She must be anx- 
iously waiting.” 

Randolph Clavering drew back. His eyes, now un- 
dimmed by tears and bent steadfastly on those of the 
speaker, took on an expression of searching scrutiny. He 
replied rather abruptly : 

“ No ; not yet. First tell me of your mother.” 

Manley’s countenance did not change under that steady 
gaze. There was no wavering of his grave, upturned eyes, 
and his rich voice lost none of its perfect calmness when he 
gently answered : 

“ So soon, dear father ? Had you not best wait 
awhile?” 

“ No, no, my boy ! I can hear far better than I can 
wait. Consider our unfortunate relations. I wish to 
know, first of all, what she has said of me — what opinion 
of his father she has implanted in the mind of my son. 
Do not force me to wait.” 

“Indeed I will not,” Manley answered warmly; and ris- 
ing he took a chair by the other’s side. 

“ And after all, dear father,” he continued, with frank 
tenderness; “there is not so very much for me to tell. 
My mother died very suddenly, and I can truly say that, up 
to the last hours of her illness, I was ignorant that you 
were living. Our home in China was a happy home. I 
could remember no other, and had only a vague impression 
of at one time having been upon the ocean. My mother 
died of the late plague which swept the empire, and only 
when hope of life was gone completely, did she inform me 
of that past of which I had been kept in ignorance.” 

He paused briefly in some emotion, and though Ran- 


FA THER AND SON. 


87 


dolph Clavering did not question him, not for an instant 
did his eyes divert from those of the speaker. 

“ She told me of the husband from whom she had sep- 
arated, of a home which she had forsaken, and amazed me 
by information of a father whom I had believed to be dead. 
She begged that I would close my business affairs in China 
and return to him, that I would bear to him her last hope 
of his welfare. I asked her why it was that I had so long 
been kept in ignorance of your existence, but she betrayed 
some aversion to replying, and I could not press my 
inquiry upon a dying mother.” 

He turned away to wipe a tear from his lashes, and 
Randolph Clavering murmured approvingly : 

“You did well, my boy. Poor Marion! the circum- 
stances warranted such consideration. You did well, my 
boy.” 

" She bade me speak thus to you, dear father,” continued 
Manley, with as much emotion as the recollection might 
have awakened. “ ‘ Tell him, Manley,’ said she, ‘that I send 
you home to him ; that I believe this long estrangement 
will cause him to regard the past with clearer eyes ; that I 
once loved him most tenderly ; and ask him, for sake of 
that love, to deal kindly and justly with all who are near to 
him.’ She gave me her picture to bring to you, and begged 
that I would urge you to think leniently of her. And she 
charged me never to press you for the story of her past; 
saying, too, that when you should see fit to reveal it, I 
then might listen. She was ill but a few hours. Father, 
she had never been other than the tenderest of mothers — 
I have tried to do what on her death-bed she bade me.” 

Here Manley Clavering’s tremulous voice gave way com- 
pletely, and he turned aside to bow his head in tears. For 
several moments neither of the two men spoke. The elder 
sat with his elbow's resting on the arms of his chair, his 


88 


UNION DOWN 


chin upon his finger-tips, his eyes bent upon the floor at 
his feet. The fearfulness and the ghastly paleness were 
gone from his face ; the poignancy of his emotion seemed to 
have waned; he appeared like one wrapt in ordinary 
thought. At length, looking up, he said calmly: 

“ Is that all? ” 

‘‘That is about all,” answered Manley, who still was 
softly sobbing. “ She bade me be kind to you, ever a 
dutiful son ; and despite whatsoever slander might come to 
my ears, to think well of her. God knows I could not 
think otherwise of my poor dead mother ! ” 

And the young man’s sobbing was redoubled. 

Randolph Clavering rose to his feet and for sevaral 
minutes paced sturdily to and fro. New strength seemed 
to have been infused into his aged limbs, and a glow like 
that of youth renewed had slowly crept athwart his wan 
features. At length Tie turned abruptly, and cried in a 
sort of restrained ebullition of feeling : 

“ Right, Manley ! think well of her. God bless her — 
and God forgive me, if ever I gave her cause for her unhappy 
act ! Let us at present speak no more of the past. Let us 
feel, my boy, that you have never been estranged from me 
and from your home. You are a fine fellow, and I am 
proud to call you my son ! Let us bury the past forever, 
and begin life anew and in the blissful hope of a cloudless 
future.” 

With countenance transfigured, Manley Clavering leaped 
to his feet, his every fiber quivering with subdued excite- 
ment, and the hands of the two men met in a strong grasp 
of cordial sympathy — but, strange as it very possibly may 
seem, the expression on the faces of both was that of joyous 
exultation. 

“Now call Clara, Manley! Call Clara, and let her view 
this dawning of a brighter day. Call Clara, my dear boy! ” 


FA THER AND SON 


89 


The old man’s voice had a ring unheard in years. His 
eyes danced with a stranger joy. Every nerve of his feeble 
frame seemed to have been rejuvenated. And when Manley 
rushed from the room to seek Clara, never wholly lost from 
his thoughts since first they had met, Randolph Clavering 
raised both of his withered hands above his gray head and 
cried aloud : 

“God bless you, Marion ! God bless you, my lost wife ! 
This is more, far more, than I have dared to hope ! ” 

He flung wide the curtains from the windows and looked 
out upon the sweeping landscape, luxuriant in the garb of 
early summer. The bright green foliage never had looked 
to him so lovely. The flowers nodded to him from their 
slender stalks, in such resplendent hues as never before. 
The singing of the birds among the branches had never 
sounded in his ears with half so sweet a music ; the calm 
expanse of sea had never in his eyes looked so like Heav- 
en’s 1 own reflection. 

Why should Randolph Clavering not have aspired to 
hear again the merriest of songs and the most joyous of 
laughter resounding through his grand old mansion ? Was 
not the day-dream of his later years realized indeed ? 

#*#### 

The sun sank at evening behind a dense bank of heavy, 
leaden clouds, which were rolling upward from beyond the 
dark and troubled waters of the bay. No golden sunbeam 
softened-the grimness of the wide waste of sea, lashed to 
angry waves by the rising wind. Soon darkness enveloped 
both earth and ocean, save that now and then -sharp chains 
of light split the gloomy heavens, quickly followed by the 
thunderous trembling of the humid atmosphere. The rain 
began to fall in great isolated drops. The wind swept colder 
across the bay, increased in violence, and moaned and 


90 


Onion down. 


screamed wildly around the gables and chimney-tops of the 
house on the bluff. 

Through the almost palpable gloom of the early night, 
and guided only by the revealing flashes of steel-blue light, 
a woman, undaunted by the tempest, went boldly forth 
from the lonely house in which she lived, and shaped her 
course across the soggy fields. She seemed oblivious to 
the cold, to the fierce gusts of wind and the blinding rain, 
to the drenched skirts which clung about her limbs and at 
times impeded her progress. Despite all, she grimly pur- 
sued her way, turning for neither fence nor wall, on over 
the rough meadows, on up the steep hill, until at length she 
stood below the veranda of the house on the bluff. 

Pausing only to regain her breath, she cautiously 
mounted the steps and crept to a spot from which she 
could peer through the window of the brilliantly lighted 
drawing-room, in which Manley Clavering, with admiring 
gaze bent upon his foster-sister’s face, was seated. 

For a long time the woman crouched out there in the 
darkness, her grim eyes fixed steadfastly upon the scene 
wuthin ; then, muttering ominously, she crept away and 
went as she had come. 

Truly Margaret Dawson must have meant it, when, 
respecting the likeness of Manley Clavering to his father, 
she had said — 


“ I can hardly wait to see ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


NANCY BRANDON. 

Having seen Manley Clavering safely over the sea and 
restored to these fatherly arms, let us leave him for the 
present, weaving his warp through the life-web of those 
around him, and turn our eyes on other scenes. 

Boston. 

That ill-famed quarter known as the North End. Still 
deserving its unsavory reputation, yet by improved police 
efficiency forced to the assumption of a cleanlier garb than 
what it wore a generation since. At the present day the 
features of some of its narrow, dirty thoroughfares are not 
the mostdnviting ; twenty years ago they were still less so. 
Inside and out, many of the houses presented a most miser- 
able and dilapidated appearance. Great filthy tenements 
abounded, into whose small and stifled rooms numerous 
distinct families were crowded, in an almost vain effort to 
eke out an existence. The shops were of the meanest kind ; 
liquor shops predominating, and by far the most patronized 
by the morally as well as physically unhealthy denizens of 
this crowded and indigent district. Yet in this place, even, 
there were diamonds to be found. 

Leaving the broad thoroughfare which skirts the city on 
the water front and extends along near the wharves and 
shipping, and following a narrower street which runs nearly 
northward, one would soon have come to a low, two-story 
wooden building, old and faded and decrepit, which yet, 

91 


92 


UNION DOWN. 


situated between two lofty warehouses, seemed to cling 
tenaciously to their grim and sturdy sides, as if in a last 
desperate determination to maintain its own upright 
position. 

Viewed from the street, the upper portion of the building 
appeared to be used for a dwelling. Through the small 
panes in the worm-eaten sashes of two narrow windows, 
cheap chintz draperies were visible, tied back with bits of 
lively ribbon ; also the posts of an old-fashioned bedstead, 
beyond which drooped the ends of pillow-cases whose 
whiteness contrasted vividly with the discolored exterior 
woodwork. 

The lower floor of this ancient structure was used for a 
shop. It was entered by a single door, which opened 
between two quite commodious windows. Hung on hooks 
in one of the latter, was a varied collection of second-hand 
clothing, heavy reefers or sailor jackets, trousers and 
blouses, and blue flannel shirts with embroidered collars; 
beneath all of which, on the slanted sheathing of the win- 
dow, lay a formidable array of divers kinds of knives, as 
well as several marine pistols of antiquated make, and 
about as dangerous to stand behind as before when 
exploded. There, too, were numerous belts, of leather or 
canvas, some with large brass buckles ; and one a money- 
belt of many compartments, now empty, though very pos- 
sibly worn at one time or another by some wealthy traveler, 
since dispossessed of fickle fortune. 

In the opposite window were a number of musical instru- 
ments, probably tuneless under any amount of artistic 
handling; several nautical instruments of brass, sadly 
oxidized and dingy; an assortment of pocket compasses, 
whose exhausted needles pointed at will, and which if fol- 
lowed were as likely to lead to Australia as the Arctic sea; 
also many cheap silver watches, suspended temptingly from 


NANCY BRANDON. 


93 


the iron chandelier ; and, withal, a collection of cheap jew- 
elry, heaped in faded plush trays. 

Above the narrow door which opened between these win- 
dows, were fixed three wooden balls, which glittered faintly 
in spots when the sunlight was on them, showing that once, 
though Heaven alone knows when, they had imitated gold, 
an artifice long since exposed by wind and weather. Here, 
too, was a narrow black sign, on which could be with diffi- 
culty deciphered in faded blue letters — 

N. VANCE. — PAWNBROKER. 

Plainly the place was, if we may use the expression, a 
sailor’s trade-shop. 

Within the door stood several chests for clothing, each 
with a label indicating its price. Two narrow counters ran 
inward, before shelves fixed to the walls, and filled with a 
variety of goods. At the extreme rear of the shop stood a 
tall stove, reaching nearly to the ceiling, from which, on a 
certain blustering March evening, radiated a vast amount 
of heat, evidently to the intense enjoyment of an aged man 
who occupied a large, cushioned chair near by. 

This man was Nathan Vance, whose name might have 
been deciphered on the sign outside. He was thin and 
wrinkled and tall — six feet and an inch — with shoulders 
scarcely bowed, but with hair and brows so white that, as he 
sat in his dimly lighted shop that cold March evening, he 
looked as if the last snow of departing winter had lingered 
on his aged head. Though his clothing was neat and 
clean, it hung on his lank figure like that on a scarecrow in 
abeanfield. A white linen scarf was knotted loosely around 
his neck, and his unpolished shirt-front was damp in one 
small spot just below and to the right of his chin, very 
much as if, in approaching second childhood, he was again 
given to the habit of drooling. 


94 


UNION DOWN. 


This, however, was not the case. Owing to an accident 
of years before, he had been obliged to undergo a surgical 
operation, termed tracheotomy, which consists of inserting 
in the windpipe a small silver tube, through which the sub- 
ject henceforth must breathe, and, when desirous of speech, 
the external end of which must be closed after inhaling — 
usually done with the tip of the forefinger. From the 
natural moisture of his exhalations gathered the drops of 
water which, escaping the scarf, fell to the shirt-front of 
Nathan Vance, and produced thereon the appearance men- 
tioned. 

For more than thirty years Mr. Vance had occupied his 
present quarters, carrying on a fairly lucrative business, 
and dealing chiefly with the seamen who came and went to 
and from the port of Boston. Unlike those of many of his 
usurious vocation, his profits were not large, most of his 
business consisting of purchases or sales outright ; and 
his originally generous nature not having become corroded 
by avarice, he had acquired but a small reserve fund for 
the traditional rainy day. 

From a room beyond the shop itself came the sound of 
voices, a woman’s and a child’s, and presently both of these 
persons entered. The woman was about thirty yeais old, 
and of figure tall and thin, like her father. Her face was 
rather pretty, but worry- worn and of a paleness contrasting 
keenly with her plain black dress, buttoned high at the 
throat. She immediately set to work replacing on their 
shelves a quantity of scattered goods, which were upon one 
of the narrow counters. 

The child ran to the arms of the old man, who took her 
upon his knee. She was a fragile tot of seven or eight, 
with a sweetly delicate face, haloed by golden hair and 
lighted by large blue eyes — wonderfully blue, that blue 
sometimes seen between great banks of snow-white clouds 


NANC Y BRA ND ON 


05 


in a summer sky. With childlike affection, she threw her 
slender arms around the old man’s neck, and fondly kissed 
him on his thin, shaven chin. 

Inhaling a long breath, and placing the tip of his finger 
over the opening of his silver tube, he wheezed huskily — 
“ Isn’t it most time for the dove to say her prayers and go 
to her little bed ? ” 

“ Oh, no, gran’ther,” was the laughing response, in a 
shrill piping voice. “We’ve just got supper cleared away, 
mamma and I — haven’t we, mamma ?” 

“Yes, dear,” replied the woman, with a wealth of tender 
sadness. “ But we were late at tea to-night. It is long 
after your bed-time.” 

“ But I want to wait for papa,” cried the little one, with a 
sort of matronly decisiveness. “Will papa come to-night, 
gran’ther ? ” 

Partly turning from her work, the woman bestowed a pit- 
eous look upon the innocent speaker, while the old man 
wheezed with a ludicrous mingling of subdued sorrow and 
essayed encouragement : 

“ Not to-night, my dove ; not to-night. But soon ; I 
hope soon, my birdie.” 

A brief shadow of disappointment crossed the face of the 
child ; but, with a glance at the mother, she slipped from 
the man’s knee, crying with precocious earnestness : 

“ Don’t say any more, gran’ther ; don’t say any more, or 
you will make mamma cry. You won’t cry, w'ill you, 
mamma? For I’ll run and get my little lamp, and go to 
bed and pray for God to send- my papa home again. God 
will hear my prayer, mamma — you said so! You won’t 
cry, will you ? ” 

The woman stooped to press the child to her breast and 
tenderly kiss the innocent, upturned lips, at the same time 
saying with an heroic effort to control her feelings : 


UNION DOWN 


“No, my darling; for your sake, no. Run and get your 
lamp.” 

But no sooner was the child gone, than the overwhelming 
grief found relief in a flood of tears. 

“That’s bad— bad, Nancy,” wheezed the old man, never- 
theless wiping his own eyes. “You mustn’t let yourself 
take on so. Remember our agreement, Nancy. To-mor- 
row’s the day. If we don’t hear from him by to-morrow, 
Nancy, we’ve agreed to give him up for dead. Don’t cry 
before the dove, Nancy, dear.” 

“ But, oh, God ! if I could only know,” came the 
intensely agonized response. “ It is not so much the 
thought of his being dead ; the dreadful anguish is in the 
fear that he may be ill and suffering, dying in a foreign 
land and among strangers — and I not by his side! If I 
could only be assured that the worst were over, I would try 
to bear my cross with resignation and fortitude; but — but, 
now ” — 

“Nancy! Nancy!” pleaded her father rising, trem- 
ulously to comfort her. “ It is so ; it must be so ! You 
else would have heard from him. It’s near a year, now; 
Ben never made you wait a year without a letter, never a 
month. Remember, Nancy, to-morrow’s the day when we 
are agreed to think of him in heaven.” 

“To-morrow — yes, to-morrow!” was the reply through 
heart-breaking sobs. “I will try — but, oh, how am I to 
give him up ? how am I to relinquish the thread of hope to 
which I have clung so piteously? how am I to — hush! my 
child is returning ! Keep sorrow out of her life ! ” 

She had caught back her sobs, hurriedly brushed the 
tears from her lashes, and now greeted with that former 
tender and heroic smile the approaching girl. 

“ Come, mamma,” said the latter, who bore proudly in 
her tiny hand a diminutive lamp which she had lighted. 


NANCY BRANDON 


97 


“ Come up with me until I am in bed. I am going to pray 
to God to send my papa home just as soon as ever He can. 
Good-night, gran’ther. God will hear my prayer this night, 
and send us news of papa. I am sure He will! Come, 
mamma.” 

She kissed her grandfather’s cheek, on which the tears 
were scarcely dry, and lamp in hand she led the way out 
through the dingy shop and up the narrow stairs to the 
chamber above. 

So they waited and watched and hoped and prayed for 
the coming of him whose mortal part had by that cruel iron 
shot been drawn ten thousand fathoms deep beneath the 
dark-blue tossing waters of the heartless sea. 

Oh, the weariness of such waiting ! Oh, the heart-sick- 
ness of such hope deferred ! Will the God whose ear is 
never deaf to such perfect prayer as that night arose from 
those pure young lips, have mercy upon him who could find 
it in his heart to sow these seeds of human suffering and 
doubt ? 

Among the persons passing along one of the chief streets 
of the city that cold March evening, was a man who will 
claim our attention. His was an imposing figure, tall and 
erect, broad across the shoulders, and suggestive of great 
physical strength. Dressed in a heavy ulster reaching 
nearly to his ankles, he wended his way through the 
throng of pedestrians, with a stride so firm and determined 
as to plainly denote that not aimlessly had he set forth from 
the hotel which he had just quitted. 

Passing a brilliantly illumined window, he appeared to 
be a man of twenty- five or twenty-six ; yet such casual 
observation were hardly trustworthy, for the glossy dark 
beard that he wore might have made him appear older 
than he really was. 

lie seemed unfamiliar with the city, for he frequently 


98 


UNION DOWN. 


studied the names printed on the lighted street-lamps, and 
at times stopped abruptly to doubtfully survey his surround- 
ings. And once he addressed himself in inquiry to a 
passing patrolman, who, in replying, bestowed on the 
questioner a glance of mingled surprise and suspicion, and 
later half turned to follow him, only to abruptly change his 
mind, as if impressed by the possibility of incurring need- 
less danger. 

So the stranger pursued his way by the lighted theatre, 
rapidly filling with eager patrons ; then on through the 
deserted business streets, where the massive buildings 
towered in grim and majestic quietude ; until at length he 
found himself in that locality known as the North End. 
Heedless of sounds distasteful to refined ears ; drunken 
laughter and ribald songs from within the numerous dram- 
shops, the wanton’s coarse remark hurled at him as he 
passed ; heedless of the curious stare of many a desperate 
character lurking in the darker doorways, he sustained his 
energetic pace until he came in sight of the wharves and 
shipping, the tall masts and spars forming white crosses on 
the darker sky. 

Now he moved rather more slowly, gazing briefly into 
each and every shop, till finally he stopped abruptly at the 
narrow doorway above which were fixed the three faded 
gilt balls and the weather-beaten sign of Nathan Vance. 

“Aha!” he murmured softly, and with apparent satis- 
faction. “This must be the place. I wonder” — 

He did not remark further, but placed his face close 
against the glass to stare through the window; though 
surely to no purpose, for the pane was heavily coated by 
the heated moisture condensed thereupon within. Then he 
drew back to the curbing, to gaze curiously at the windows of 
the room above, in which a lamp was burning — and a child 
praying. 


NANCY BRANDON. 


99 


He stood irresolute for several moments, while muttering 
thoughtfully : 

“ One’s liable to turn up one’s toes, seeing a ghost all of 
a sudden. It’s some time since — but very likely I’d not 
be recognized since I have grown this seaweed on my chin. 
I will chance it.” 

He drew higher the collar of his heavy coat, and assum- 
ing a swagger strode across the sidewalk and entered the 
shop, in which Nathan Vance again was seated in heat- 
absorption from the glowing store. Possibly some of this 
molecular activity was imparted to his aged limbs, for he 
sprang with remarkable agility to his feet and hurried to the 
front of the shop, to gaze with eager and inquiring eyes at 
the stranger’s face ; but his hopeful expression instantly faded 
to one of disappointment, as quickly followed by that of curi- 
osity. 

The stranger eyed him sharply and was about to speak, 
when Nathan, laying a restraining hand upon his arm, 
wheezed abruptly, by aid of his silver tube and ready fore- 
finger : 

“ Careful, sir ! Don’t speak too loud, if you bring us 
news of Ben. Tell it softly to me first, and I’ll break it 
gently to Nancy and the dove. They’re up above, sir; so 
speak sort of low, for the walls ain’t over thick. Do you 
bring us news of Ben ?” 

Nathan Vance could imagine no more plausible occasion 
to have brought this well-dressed stranger into his humble 
shop. He studied his face intently while speaking, seeking 
some grounds for hope ; but he could make nothing of the 
grave expression which slowly settled thereupon, and dis- 
placed a first stare of blank amazement. 

“Who is Ben?” demanded the stranger, subduing his 
voice ; then, as if oppressed by the atmosphere of the shop, 
he threw open his coat and added with a gasp : “ Are you 


100 


UNION DOWN. 


cooking yourself in here? What do you mean by news of 
Ben?” 

“ It’s nothing — nothing,” replied the old man gravely, 
his jaw fallen perceptibly. “ I see I was mistaken. Our 
traders don’t move in your class, and I was surprised when 
you entered. I thought — you see, sir, Ben is my daughter’s 
husband. He’s away — over the sea. We’ve heard noth- 
ing from him for over a year now, and seeing you I thought 
maybe you had brought some message — dead, perhaps* X 
beg your pardon. What can I do for you ? ” 

The old man had required some little time to wheeze out 
this long explanation, but the stranger listened attentively, 
his grave eyes bent upon the speaker’s attenuated face. 

“ So you think that he is dead, do you? ”he asked slowly. 

“Yes — dead; I do. But Nancy don’t give him up so 
long as there’s a thread to which to cling.” 

“ Who is Nancy? ” 

“ His wife — Ben’s ; and my daughter. You hardly came 
here to buy or to sell — what is your business, sir? 

Nathan Vance expressed by his abruptness a disinclina- 
tion to gratify idle curiosity. He turned sharply and walked 
behind the counter, his clothing flapping about his attenu- 
ated form as it might about an agitated dummy in a 
clothier’s. 

“Nothing — at least nothing very special,” was the grave 
reply. “ I am a stranger in the city. I have lost my way, 
and I ventured to step in here to inquire what direction I 
shall take to reach the Tremont House.” 

“ Any officer would have told you — and they are plenty 
hereabouts,” said Mr. Vance shortly, for his spindle legs 
were beginning to tire. “ Follow the street in that direction 
for half a mile, then ask again.” And lowering his skinny 
finger, he returned, without another word, to his absorptive 
enjoyment by the stove. 


NANCY BRANDON 


101 


But the stranger showed no inclination to depart. He 
leaned against the low counter and gazed thoughtfully at 
the floor, much as if he would read in the knotty plank- 
ing the solution of some equally knotty problem by which 
he was perplexed. 

Save now and then to glance furtively in his direction, 
Nathan Vance paid him no further attention ; and so affairs 
were when Nancy returned to the shop some five minutes 
later. She evinced some surprise on beholding the stran- 
ger, and looked inquiringly at her father, who said in a 
windy whisper : 

“ He came in to learn his way home. I reckon he’s cold.” 

Women whose hearts carry such burdens as did that of 
Nancy, grasp at straws. She walked back of the counter 
and addressed the man, who, at the sound of her voice, 
started abruptly from his self-absorption. 

“ Can I serve you in any way, sir ? ” she asked. 

“ Thank you — no,” he replied, gravely regarding her wist- 
ful eyes. “Your worthy father has given me all the inform- 
ation I require.” Then, as if moved by her faint sigh to 
express himself freely, he added : “ I was thinking that per- 
haps I can serve you.” 

Nancy flushed a little, then turned pale. 

“ Serve me, sir? You ? ” 

“Yes, if you will allow me to do so,” he replied; then, 
nodding in the direction of Nathan Vance: “He has 
informed me of your anxiety regarding your husband. I 
am interested in ships and shipping, and if you care to 
apprise me of the particulars, perhaps I can aid you to learn 
something of him.” 

“ Oh, sir, if you only could ! ” cried Nancy, her fervent 
tone and quick flush evincing her instantaneous gratitude. 
“ I never would forget your kindness, sir, though I might 
never be able to repay it,” 


102 


UNION DOWN 


“I desire nothing in the way of payment,” was the 
rejoinder, with a grave smile. “Anything that I can do, 
I will do gladly ; but I of course cannot absolutely promise 
anything. I am told that your husband was in a foreign 
country when last you heard from him.” 

“He was, sir; he was in Hong Kong, China,” Nancy 
eagerly replied. 

“ Had he been there long ? ” 

“ About four years, sir. It was not his intention to 
remain even that length of time, but having secured a good 
position he was influenced to stay. The climate, however, 
did not agree with him, and a year ago he wrote that he 
was about to leave for home. Since then I have heard 
nothing from him, and his letters had always come so regu- 
larly that I now can fear only the worst.” 

The gravely attentive face of the stranger did not 
vary. 

“Can you tell me the name of the party by whom he was 
employed? ” he asked thoughtfully. 

“ Wilson, sir. Ben always wrote of him as Mr. Wilson.” 

“ And that gentleman’s business? ” 

“I do not know,” said Nancy, anxiously doubtful. 

“ Did not your husband ever write upon a printed letter 
sheet?” 

“ He did not, sir. They were invariably plain, and I 
addressed him simply at Hong Kong.” 

“Do you know the name of the vessel in which he 
expected to embark for home ?” 

“No, sir; I do not know even that,” said Nancy, almost 
inclined to tears. 

“Never mind,” encouragingly smiled the stranger. “I 
believe we shall accomplish something upon this informa- 
tion, meagre though it seems. Tell me your husband’s 
name, please.” 


N A NC Y BRA ND ON 


103 


“ Brandon, sir ; Benjamin Brandon,” was the reply, tremu- 
lous with gratitude. 

“Very good,” and the speaker jotted down a few lines in 
a note-book which he had taken from his pocket. “ That 
is all I shall at present need to know. If I can learn any- 
thing of Benjamin Brandon, you will very speedily hear from 
me.” 

He turned as if to go, but Nancy obeyed an impulse to 
stay him. She cried half timidly : 

“ Oh, sir, I hardly know how to thank you for your kind- 
ness. May I not ask your name ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

The stranger returned and wrote his name and address 
on the back of a card, taken from a case upon the counter. 

“ There it is,” said he ; “ and if you hear from your hus- 
band before hearing from me, kindly communicate with 
me.” 

“ I will surely do so, sir,” said Nancy, studying eagerly 
the sadly angular chirography. 

“Can you read it?” laughed he, softly; and leaned 
nearer to add : “ Orlando Sedgewick, Tremont House.” 

“Oh, yes, sir! I can read it,” cried Nancy, with moist, 
grateful eyes raised again to the gentleman’s face. 

“ Very good, then,” he nodded with a laugh, as he but- 
toned his coat across his breast. “ Few persons can, for my 
writing looks a good deal like hen’s tracks. Keep up a 
brave heart, Mrs. Brandon, for you shall surely hear from 
me. I now must bid you good-evening.” 

He raised his hat, as he opened the door, and, with 
Nancy Brandon’s earnest expressions of gratitude sounding 
in his ears, he passed out into the street. 

One fact must be very apparent — that he had not accom- 
plished the true errand which had brought him to the shop 
of the pawnbroker. 


CHAPTER X. 


MR. SEDGEWICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 

There may have been more than one reason to actuate 
Mr. Orlando Sedgewick in behalf of Nancy Brandon. Very 
likely he had been acquainted with her husband, and now 
interested himself from a feeling of indirect friendship for 
the wife. Or perhaps his sympathy had been awakened by 
Nancy’s sad face and appealing eyes, and that one need 
look no further for a motive. On the other hand, Mr. 
Sedgewick may have had an ax of his own to grind. Be 
all this as it may, one fact is assured — he did interest 
himself. 

On the morning following his visit to the .North End, he 
was seated in the smoking-room of his hotel, dreamily run- 
ning his eyes over the columns of a daily paper. As he is to 
occupy no unimportant position in the subsequent pages, it 
may not be out of place to observe him a little more 
precisely. 

He could not have been called an attractive man, 
although the majority would probably have considered him 
handsome ; for while his features were regular and well 
formed, his expression was habitually so grave and distant, 
his general bearing so reserved, that strangers were repelled 
rather than attracted by him. 

Though yet a young man, his lofty brow was faintly 
marked by lines which tell of profound thought, and 
revealed a contemplative mind of more than ordinary power 

104 


MR. SEDGEWICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 


105 


and capacity, His complexion was strikingly pale, ren- 
dered noticeable by the glossy dark-brown beard and mous- 
tache which concealed his lower features. His eyes were 
most remarkable. They were intensely expressive of the 
inner man. They were eyes which could fascinate and 
charm at one moment, repulse and terrify at another. 

He was always scrupulously dressed, yet with consistent 
modesty. His hands were white and well formed, una- 
dorned by jewelry, the only sign of which upon his person 
was a heavy gold watch-chain. 

Glancing over the morning paper, he chanced to notice in 
the shipping news the arrival on the previous day of the 
clipper ship Bounding Wave, Capt. Barr, from Honolulu. 
The observation did not make any special impression on 
him ; not sufficient, indeed, to cause him to remember the 
vessel’s name even. It chiefly suggested to him a method 
by which he possibly might solve the mystery over which 
he was musing. 

“Mr. Brandon,” communed he; “surely embarked for 
home in some vessel. I will examine the back arrivals, 
make a list of them, and inquire of the owners. If he were 
lost at sea, or died on the voyage, the fact must have been 
reported at headquarters, and the knowledge will ease the 
woman’s mind; If he did not,” and here the thinker’s 
grave eyes burned momentarily; “if he did not, but 
instead arrived safely in this country, I greatly fear, Nancy, 
that your husband has forsaken you, and is a very unprin- 
cipled man. I will go and consult a file of papers. Better 
be doing that than nothing.” 

Mr. Sedgewick devoted a considerable portion of several 
days to this consultation, and made a long list of the arriv- 
als from the Celestial Empire during the year, both into the 
ports of New York and Boston. Indeed, so long did it 
become ere he had it completed, that he was discouraged of 


106 


UNION DOWN. 


the plan he had in mind, and resolved upon another. It is 
true that, in the list which he had made, there appeared 
the name of the Bounding Wave, then in port; but he did 
not remember to have seen the name a day or two previous, 
and so he unconsciously stood upon the very threshold of 
success, only to turn away with labor*unrequited. 

Returning to the hotel late in the afternoon of the fourth 
day, he was much surprised to find awaiting him the follow- 
ing communication from Nancy Brandon, written in a deli- 
cate, feminine hand: 

“I have received news of my husband, but the informa- 
tion is of a very incomplete and unsatisfactory character. 
May I be permitted to call and see you, if you have no 
objection to increasing my obligation to you, and are willing 
to advise me? 

Nancy Brandon.” 

Mr. Sedgewick smiled oddly and put the note in his 
pocket. Early the same evening he donned his heavy coat 
and left the hotel, again turning his steps in the direction of 
the North End. 

Reverting briefly, let us see what had occurred in the shop 
of Nathan Vance, to prompt Nancy to make such an appeal 
to Mr. Sedgewick. 

During three days subsequent to his visit, her spirits had 
been considerably buoyed by the belief that reliable informa- 
tion would be speedily forthcoming. Her unusual bright- 
ness was noticed both by her precocious little daughter and 
by Nathan Vance, the latter of whom was informed of its 
occasion, though by no means sharing his daughter’s faith 
in the interest of her newly found benefactor. 

Late in the evening of the third day, she was seated alone 
in the dimly lighted shop. In such cases as hers, lingering- 
doubt is more trying than absolute certainty even. So worn 
was she by months of weary waiting, of hoping against ever- 


MR. SEDGEWICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 107 

increasing cause for despair, of praying in the face of heart- 
sickening dread and doubt, that now she would have 
welcomed almost with gratitude evidence' which should 
assure her that her sick husband had peacefully died and 
was reverently laid away, and would have given herself with 
resignation to the care of that lovable tie which had bound 
them closer than human code can ever bind. 

It was nearly midnight. Her father was long since abed 
in a small room which adjoined the shop, and within easy 
hearing distance in event of a disturbance, of which the 
immediate locality was the frequent ground. 

The shop was rarely closed earlier than midnight. As 
this hour approached, very often some jolly tar, hoodwinked 
if not robbed outright by landsharks of one sex or the other, 
dropped in to dispose of some knickknack or bit of jewelry, 
from the proceeds of which to insure himself a night’s lodg- 
ing or another hour of characteristic revelry. 

But this particular evening had been quite devoid of bus- 
iness, owing in part to the cold drizzling rain that was fall- 
ing ; and when the clock in the kitchen sounded twelve, 
Nancy arose to extinguish the lamps and lock the door for 
the night. 

Advancing down the street was the darkest of evil-look- 
ing characters, barely discernible against the midnight 
gloom. It was a man, staggering with uncertain steps 
along the clammy sidewalk, where ^tenacious black mud had 
been collecting since day-break ; now bracing himself 
against the adjacent building for brief support, and gazing 
with bleared eyes through the drizzle and darkness, as if in 
maudlin search for one place or another ; then reeling 
onward again, grumbling from out the depths of his wet gar- 
ments, venting a vain curse upon mankind as a whole, and 
bewailing with drunken bitterness his own sorry condition. 

The man was John Godbold, the whilom third mate of the 


108 UNION DOWN 

Bounding Wave. But that noble clipper, home again from 
a ten months’ voyage, had been three days in port; and 
John Godbold, having been discharged for insolence to his 
captain, had viciously devoted a larger portion of the sev- 
enty-two hours to drowning his injuries, as he was fain to 
term them, in drink. 

The courting of this bacchanalian oblivion had required 
no small monetary expenditure, which he had made with all 
the recklessness of drunken determination ; and, as a result, 
he now found himself not only cold and wet and paradoxi- 
cally dry, but unfortunately without further means where- 
with to lighten his burden of woe. 

It is not much to be wondered at, that Nancy Brandon 
recoiled from the door and retreated quickly behind the 
counter, when she beheld this villainous-looking knave cross 
the threshold and advance unsteadily to lean upon a small 
show-case back of which she had taken her stand. The 
gathered moisture was half-frozen amid the filthiness of his 
grizzled beard; his blinking eyes were bleared and blood- 
shot, and bent in an ominous and doubtful gaze at her frail 
form and pale face. 

Drawing his wet sleeve across his feverish lips, he cried 
bluntly, and in tones so thick and gutteral as to be hardly 
articulate : 

“Be you the cap’n o’ this ’ere craft?” 

“Yes,” replied Nancy; *ind, though her face was pale and 
her eyes inclined to be fearful, her voice had that sharp ring 
which was likely to banish from her hearer’s mind any idea 
of attempting intimidation. “What do you want?” 

Godbold read the woman’s disgust. Had he not felt him- 
self a suitor, he would have answered it with oaths and 
abuse. As it was, he growled almost incoherently : 

“My locker’s empty. I want to sell a bit o’ a prize what 
I’ve stowed away here. ’Tain’t much good to me, now, for 


MR. SEDGEWlCtf INTERESTS HIMSELF. 


109 


the craft what I was givin’ chase outsailed me, an’ the 
tother one Davy Jones has in pickle. Cuss it! have the 
landsharks robbed me o’ that, too?” he fiercely cried, all 
the while searching vainly through the pockets of his wet 
clothing. 

Nancy, not unaccustomed to such scenes, waited patiently 
for several minutes; but finally, when the man’s maudlin 
search seemed sure to prove unproductive, she said quietly: 

“You evidently have lost it, sir. I think we can do no 
business this evening. Can you not call again to-morrow?” 

“To-morrer!” roared Godbold, furious in his disappoint- 
ment. “What in h — l’s to become o’ me to-night? D’yer 
want me to bunk i’ the gutter? To-morrer! I tell yer I — 
ha ! here’s the d — d thing, now ! ” 

He finally had found it — the object for which he was 
searching. With a growl of vicious satisfaction he drew it 
from a corner of his filthy pocket; a heavy gold ring, 
wrapped in a bit of brown paper. He unfolded the paper, 
and the ring dropped from his shaking hand and fell upon 
the glass of the show-case. 

As if glad of release from such dark and grewsome quar- 
ters, as if rejoiced to unexpectedly appear again on so fond 
and familiar a scene, as if given life itself by the well-known 
eyes which so many times in the past had been bent lovingly 
upon it, it bounded upward once from the glass surface with 
a joyous little ring, then danced gaily round and round, sing- 
ing while it moved upon the polished glass, much as if it 
took the only means in its power to express its mad joy at 
the prospect of again encircling the beloved finger already 
extended as if in eager welcome — the finger of a wife! 

Nancy Brandon, all unconscious of the shock about to be 
given her, took up the plain gold band, estimated its weight 
in her weary hand, then bent her eyes in examination of the 
karat mark within. They were sad and moist eyes at that 


110 


UNION DOWN 


moment. The sight of such a ring had brought home with 
all its intensity her own grievous sorrow. 

Then a swift chill fell upon her heart, swept from heart to 
brain, and from brain through every drop of blood and 
every nerve and fibre. There it was! the dear, familiar 
marking of her own wedding ring — the ring which years 
before her husband had been permitted to wear away upon 
his finger ! There it was, plain and clear and appealing in 
the dim lamplight — 

“N. V .from B. B. Fides et Amor” 

She did not scream. Only one long, low, surging breath 
broke from her lips, and she reeled backward against the 
shelves, hueless and weak and trembling, clutching the 
cherished object to her breast, and gazing with wide, star- 
ing, tear-flooded eyes at the drunken wretch opposite. 

“Wal!” cried John Godbold, expressing his surprise by 
a terrible oath. “What’s the matter with yer ? Have yer 
sprung a leak? Will yer buy the” — 

He was interrupted by the subdued yet passionate cry 
which cut in upon him, and he recoiled instinctively from 
the hand suddenly-outstretched to seize him. 

“ Man ! man ! tell me — tell me where you got it ! Tell 
me how you came by this ring ! ”• 

Nancy’s voice and eyes and quivering form betrayed her 
riot of emotions. John Godbold was not too drunk to be 
cunning. He at once perceived that the ring had more 
than an intrinsic value, and already he regretted letting go 
the bauble. He made an attempt to snatch it from Nancy’s 
hand, and when she quickly avoided his movement, he broke 
into a volley of curses, crying furiously : 

“ I come by it honest ! It’s none o’ yer business ! Will 
yer give what it’s wuth ? If not, gimme back the ring! 
Gimme back the ring, I say ! ” 

“Peace! peace, man!” cried Nancy, subduing her excite- 


MR. SEDGE W/C^C INTERESTS HIMSELF. 


Ill 


ment, yet addressing him in earnest tones of piteous appeal. 
“I make no charge of dishonesty. The ring is mine — was 
worn by my husband. I will give you all it is worth, 
thrice what it is worth, if you will but tell me when and how 
it came into your hands. See ! ” and from the bosom of 
her dress she drew a roll of bills, holding it towards him ; 
“ here is thrice its value. The money is yours, only tell me 
what I so wish to know ! ” 

It would have been an easy matter to obtain the desired 
information, had she not been blinded by her emotions and 
betrayed too profound an eagerness. John Godbold was of 
course ignorant of the outrage to which she had been sub- 
jected by the young man who had pretended to befriend 
Benjamin Brandon aboard the Bounding Wave, and he 
would have had no special incentive to retain the facts of 
the case. 

But with the shrewdness of sobriety the seaman now rea- 
soned that, if the ring belonged to the woman, she legally 
could claim it; and, seeing almost within his grasp the 
money so eagerly desired, he viciously determined to take 
it — but withhold his knowledge for subsequent use. He 
seized with avidity the amount proffered, and laughed 
discordantly. 

“Wal, if it’s yourn you’ve got it back agin, haven’t yer? 
Thank yer lucky stars fur that ! ” he cried brutally, and 
turned to leave the shop. 

But Nancy, with a sudden sinking of heart, was not so 
to be outdone. She threw herself across the narrow 
counter, wildly seizing the seaman by the arm and detain- 
ing him with all the strength of frenzied desperation, at 
the same time pleading piteously : 

“Hold, hold, man! do not wrong me thus! Do not 
refuse to tell me what you know of my husband ! Oh, 
man, man, think of my sorrow, my suffering ! Have you 


112 


VNIO^ DOWN. 


no heart ? Sailors should have pity for me, as I have for 
them — sailors should have kind hearts — you are a sailor! 
Tell me — tell me! if there be one on earth you love, tell 
me for her sake what you know of my husband ! ” 

The agony thrilling her j voice, revealed in her hueless 
face and fearful eyes, should have moved a heart of stone; 
but it had no further effect on the brutal heart of John 
Godbold, than to augment his knavish resolution. Yet she 
held him so securely, that, thinking to break her hold by 
speech, he suddenly cried grimly : 

“ He was buried at sea! I took the ring from his dead 
finger.” 

Then, as if angry with himself for having imparted even 
this much of what he now felt sure was valuable informa- 
tion, he vented a terrible oath, snatched his arm from 
Nancy’s hold, and reeled toward the door. 

The woman uttered a cry of despair and rushed from 
behind the counter. 

“Wait! Not yet — do not go yet! I must know more 
— more! Tell me of my husband! Stop, man, I com- 
mand you!” she screamed, suddenly imbued with power 
born of the occasion. “If you dare to open the door I 
will call the police to arrest you ! ” 

The seaman wheeled about, his hideous face red with 
passion, and strode toward her. 

“ Perlice ! Arrest me!” he roared furiously. “You 
d— d minx! I’ve a mind to wring yer neck afore I leave! 
Yer husband — harkee ! if you’d larn more o’ him, seek 

mein the village o’ B ! And bring the price o’ the 

knowledge with yer ! Perlice ! cuss yer, talk o’ perlice to 
me, an’ I’ll” — 

He stopped abruptly, dropped the brutal hand which he 
had raised to strike the shrinking woman, then as suddenly 
turned with a growl of alarm and tore open the door, and 


MR. SEDGEWICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 


113 


dashed furiously from the shop. Nancy wildly followed, 
but already he had vanished through the gloom and drizzle 
of the cold city street. 

The cause of his alarm was obvious. He had suddenly 
observed emerging from a door at the rear of the shop, the 
tall figure of Nathan Vance, dressed in the blue uniform of 
the city police — an artifice which the pawnbroker had hit 
upon for just such occasions, and which had frequently 
proven quite as effective as on the present. 

Nancy soon returned from her vain pursuit of the sea- 
man, and with much agitation disclosed what had occurred, 
expressing no little regret that her father had appeared so 
inopportunely as to preclude her further appeal. Nathan 
Vance comforted her by sadly wheezing: 

“ All along I have believed Ben to be dead.” 

Then, directing her to close the shop, he hurriedly re- 
turned to bed, much as if he feared the sheets might already 
have grown colder than his own cold and bloodless body. 

The following morning Nancy wrote and mailed the note 
to Orlando Sedgewick, and that evening, to her surprise 
and gratification, she heard the shop door open and beheld 
him enter. 

It was yet quite early, and the dove was perched on 
her grandfather’s knee. Seeing the unusual stranger, she 
slipped impulsively to the floor, to dance up and down, 
joyously clapping her tiny hands and crying gleefully : 

“Mamma! mamma! see what God has done! He has 
heard my prayers and sent my papa home ! ” 

Quickly rising, Nancy subdued the child’s enthusiasm by 
a glance, and went to greet the new-comer. 

“Ah, Mr. Sedgewick,” said she half reproachfully, yet 
with an appreciative glow in her gentle eyes; “you have 
allowed me to impose upon you, I did not mean that you 
should trouble yourself to call here again,” 


114 


UNION DOWN. 


“No trouble at all, Mrs. Brandon,” he replied. “I have 
very little to do, and a good deal of time in which to do it. 
I am very glad to be of service to you — if I yet may prove 
to be so.” 

He had extended his ungloved hand, and was smiling in 
a gravely earnest way very pleasing to those who knew him 
well. Nancy blushingly thanked him and invited him to a 
chair at the rear of the shop. He accepted the invitation, 
greeting Nathan Vance with easy freedom, and held out 
his hand for the child to come to him ; which she readily 
but modestly did, standing by his knee and gazing up into 
his face with her wondrous blue eyes. 

“ So you thought I was your papa, did you ? ” asked he, 
stroking her golden hair and holding her tiny hands in his 
broad palm. 

“ Some precocious young people do not know all that 
is taking place around them,” gently interposed Nancy, 
meaningly. 

Mr. Sedgewick significantly smiled that she was under- 
stood, and the child piped shrilly in reply to his question : 

“Yes, sir; I thought so at first.” 

“ And why, pray, did you think that I was your papa ? ” 

The tot hesitated for a moment, then appealed to her 
mother. 

“ Shall I tell him, mamma ? ” 

“Well, I certainly know of no reason why you should 
not,” laughed Nancy, fondly. 

“Because, sir,” and the blue eyes were raised again to 
those of the stranger, in which there now glowed a tender- 
ness that quite dispelled from his face that gravity which 
appeared so akin to sadness; “because, sir, my mamma 
looked so pleased when she saw you, and she says my papa 
is a fine, handsome” — 

Mr. Sedgewick broke into a soft, genial laugh, and bend- 


MR. SEDGEWICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 115 

ing abruptly, kissed the innocent young lips to silence; 
while Nancy, blushing profusely, glanced with amused dis- 
may at her father, who wheezed delightedly : 

“ Quite right, sir ; quite right and to the point. Let a 
child alone, sir, if you’d have the truth plainly spoken.” 

“Ah,” fondly murmured Mr. Sedgewick, folding the art- 
less child in his powerful arms; “ I can conceive no greater 
happiness than to be the father of such an angel as 
yourself.” 

“Why don’t you be so, then?” came the guileless query. 

Nancy dispelled her immediate embarrassment by laugh- 
ing freely, and turning to her father said suggestively : 

“ I think it is quite time she was taken up to bed. Will 
you kindly go with her this evening? Mr. Sedgewick’s 
time may be valuable.” 

Though the latter gravely remarked otherwise, Nathan 
Vance at once arose to comply with his daughter’s request. 
The dove expressed no childish remonstrance, but sweetly 
raised her lips to Sedgewick for a parting kiss. 

“ I feel sorry if you are disappointed that I was not your 
papa,” he said softly. 

“Don’t feel sorry, sir,” came the piping rejoinder. 
“ Mamma says that God will hear my prayers at last, and I 
shall pray again to-night for God to send my papa home.” 

A faint moisture showed in Sedgewick’s eyes. He drew 
the child to his breast and laid his lips to hers. 

“Such angels as you,” he murmured lovingly; “are god- 
sends to us one and all.” Then, with so painful a choking 
at the throat as to preclude further speech, he released her. 

How far he was from dreaming, as he murmured these 
tender words, that she was destined to prove to him a god- 
send indeed ! that this little one whose hands he had 
fondled, whose innocent lips he h^d kissed so reverently, 
was by and by to prevent the extinction of a flame 


11(3 


UNION DOWN 


whose burning was yet to become his whole of light and 
life and happiness ! 

“Now,” said he, turning to Nancy when they were 
alone; “what have you heard? and in what way can I 
become your adviser ? ” 

Nancy began by essaying to thank him for his kindness, 
but being gravely restrained from this, she briefly told him 
the story of her wedding ring and its strange return, 
fie listened attentively till she had concluded, when he 
remained for several minutes in deep thought. 

“ Do you know,” he at length asked ; “ if your husband 
had with him money to any large amount ? ” 

“ I am sure that he did not have,” Nancy answered confi- 
dently. “ No large sum.” 

“ Will you carefully describe, please, the man who 
returned the ring ? ” 

Nancy complied with the request. 

“And this man mentioned the town of B — , and said 
that if you desired further information you must seek him 
there ? ” 

‘ Precisely, sir.” 

Mr. Sedgewick was again silent for some little time, when 
he said gravely : 

“ It is evident that this man knows more than he dis- 
closed, and is inclined to set a price upon his information.” 

“ So I think, Mr. Sedgewick.” 

“And, if I were you, I would not be so imposed upon.” 

“ It is, indeed, a great imposition ; but I am very anxious 
to obtain all the facts.” 

“There is one fact, Mrs. Brandon,” said Sedgewick 
gently; “of which I think you may feel quite assured. 
I regret to say so, for I feel sure it must grieve you; but I 
have no doubt that this* seaman spoke the truth, when he 
said that your husband died and was buried at sea,” 


MR. SEDGE WICK INTERESTS HIMSELF. 


117 


“Nor have I, now,” Nancy answered sadly. “I hardly 
know how best to act in the matter.” 

Mr. Sedgewick drew his chair a little nearer, asking 
modestly : 

“Have you confidence in me and my discretion, Mrs. 
Brandon ?” * 

“Can you doubt it?” cried Nancy, feelingly. “Indeed, 
I have ! ” 

“Then I will suggest what, if found acceptable to you, 
may prove a wise and profitable move. I confess that I 
have become rather interested in the case, and,” with a 
smile; “I have quite a predilection to dip into mysteries. 
If you think well of the project, I will make a visit to the 

town of B , endeavor to ^locate this seaman, and 

adroitly deprive him of his fund of secret information.” 

“Oh, Mr. Sedgewick” — 

“ Nay, do not undertake to thank me until I have accom- 
plished something worthy of thanks,” interposed he, smil- 
ing. “ I see that you approve of my plan, and I will put it 
in operation at my earliest convenience. In the meantime, 
should the seaman return and attempt further extortion, 
repulse him as he deserves and rely upon me to ultimately 
disclose all the facts relative to your husband’s death or 
silence. Are you willing to trust me to this extent? ” 

“Indeed I am,” said Nancy, with grateful tears showing 
in her eyes. “I will follow your directions precisely, but 
I do not know how I ever can repay you for your interest 
and kindness.” 

“Nevertheless, I am sure that I shall be repaid,” 
Sedgewick said simply; which remark the woman did not 
quite understand. 

So the matter was finally arranged, and Mr. Sedgewick, 
promising soon to communicate with Nancy by letter, took 
his departure. 


CHAPTER XI. 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 

On a charming morning early in April, and nearly a year 
after the return home of young Manley Clavering, three 
sturdy men and two diminutive boys might have been seen 
at work in a large field somewhat to the east of Mr. Marcus 
Wiseacre’s angular dwelling, and adjacent to the village 
road. 

They were Mr. Wiseacre’s help, annually engaged for the 
purpose of tilling his farm ; though why he termed them 
help is, to say the least, problematical, for personally he 
never so much as pulled a weed or dropped a seed. 

The haze of the early morning had burned away. The 
clear air was fresh and invigorating. The young grass 
of the meadows was bright with verdant life. From the 
branches of the budding willows that overhung a great 
pond in a hollow across the way, the gladsome note of the 
robins sounded almost incessantly on the genial morning 
air. 

“’Pears to me,” remarked Elijah Jenkins, a hardy 
farmer who had turned three score years without sign of 
wrinkle or crow’s foot; “’pears to me this ’ere mornin’s a 
deal more spring-like than we’ve ben a gettin’, ain’t it ?” 

“Yaas,” drawled the man nearest, with a pronounced 
nasal twang ; “ so it air a sight warmer. What’s the 
almanick say fur the rest o’ the month? ” 

“Wal,” rejoined Jenkins, who had acquired quite a local 
118 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


119 


reputation for wisdom ;'“ I couldn’t say ez to that. I rar’ly 
look at the almanick, onless I want to find the day o’ the 
month or larn suthin’ about an erclipse.” 

“Sho! is that so, Lige ? I couldn’t do ’thout it. I read 
the almanick most as reg’lar as I do my Word o’ God.” 

“An’ that’s not often, Seth Jones, ef we’re to jedge by 
your prognosticates o’ the weather,” cried a third party, 
who had overheard the conversation. 

“Ez to that,” retorted Seth, his bronzed face flushed by 
the laugh which had followed; “I don’t think there’s much 
chance o’ you’re goin’ to heaven in a chariot o’ fire, Aleck, 
onless you quit takin’ other people’s melon-patches fur your 
own.” 

Jenkins cut in before an angry response, by straightening 
up and resting on his hoe with the following remarks. 

“Wal, boys, the Word o’ God air all right in its place, 
an’ the Old Farmer’s Almanick air all right in its place, 
They both sarves a purpose, an’ nuther the one nor the 
tother on ’em air wholly reliable. It’s a purty weakly kind 
of a man as has to go to the almanick to larn that we’re to 
have showers an’ sunshine, an’ warmer an’ cooler weather, 
an’ now an’ then signs of a storm in the next thutty days; 
but he’s a tarnel sight more weakly, if he has to go to the 
Word o’ God to larn humility an’ the Golden Rule. Prog- 
nosticatin’ may be a art, boys, an’ like enough it can be 
larned an’ sot down in a book ; but it ’pears to me a deal 
like guessin’, when they telbye a year ahead to look out for 
unsartin weather at a sartin time. But a man don’t need to 
go to no book, an’ he can guess he’s shootin’ putty nigh the 
mark, when he does ez he’d be done by, an’ loves his neigh- 
bor ez he loves himself.” 

“B’gosh!” ejaculated Aleck, who had stopped short 
from his work to listen; “I’m thinkin’ you was cut out 
fur a parson, Lige, an’ have mistook your vineyard. You’d 


120 


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ought to be shepherd of a flock o’ two-legged sheep fur 
sartin.” 

“No, Aleck,” rejoined the other, gravely shaking his 
head. “ I’m no parson, nor have I mistook my field o’ 
labor. I’m well contented to be one o’ the sheep myself. 
You know a whole flock will offen follow one old ram ; so I 
jest say to myself, if I go right an’ graze in my own pastur, 
an’ don’t be givin’ myself to scalin’ the fences an’ walls o’ 
evil an’ deception, like ez not the whole flock’ll follow 
my example. A man don’t need to have the world by the 
nape o’ the neck, to be influential in a sartin way.” 

“An’ that’s gospel truth! ” cried Seth Jones, resuming his 
work with stimulated energy. 

“ Like ez not, then, sence you air so wise,” drawled 
Aleck, with a laugh; “you can prognosticate consarnin’ 
the chances o’ Manley Clavering’s marryin’ Squire Wise- 
acre’s darter, N’omi.” 

“That ’ere’s a matter that consarns nuther you nor me, 
Aleck, an’ ez the hitchin’ o’ two persons together by tongue- 
talk, who p’raps have no idea o’ gettin’ married, can do 
them no good nor us nuther, the leastwise we can do is to 
mind our own business.” 

“ Sartin sure ! ” muttered Seth, working harder than ever. 

“Gosh all hemlock! I ain’t hitched ’em together, have 
I ?” cried Aleck, rather irritated by a certain human frailty 
just betrayed by Mr. Jones. “I s’pose a man can speak o’ 
two parties ’thout marryin’ on *em, can’t he? Ez to that, 
he’s tarnel attentive in that quarter, if you can jedge any- 
thing by that; an’ his name is linked with N’omi’s the 
length an’ breadth o’ the town.” 

“ He’s a promisin’ young man,” said Jenkins, unmoved 
by this show of feeling; “an’ ez to bein’ attentive to 
Naomi, he’s that to everybody — -most of all to his sister 
Clara. Leastwise, so John says, an’ John ought to know 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


321 


suthin’ about it, fur he most lives at the house on the 
bluff.” 

It might here be explained that the John referred to was 
the speaker’s son, employed by Randolph Clavering. 

“Wal, he couldn’t marry his sister, could he?” demanded 
Aleck, rather disdainfully. 

“If he wanted to I s’pose he could, bein’ that she’s only 
an adopted darter an’ no blood relation,” was the somewhat 
doubtful reply. “But I opine he air too much given to 
hosses an’ boats an’ sech like, to be thinkin’ o’ marryin’ 
anyone at present. Harkee!” he added abruptly; “you 
can’t lose nuthin’ by gettin’ to work, all on you, fur here 
comes Squire Wiseacre across lots.” 

This was indeed a fact. 

Over the meadow adjoining the ploughed land on which 
the men were at work, and walking very slowly by aid of 
two hickory canes of tried and trusted strength, came the 
calm and corpulent person mentioned. 

His feet were encased in a pair of heavy cowhide boots, 
which, owing to the shortness of his black and shiny trou- 
sers, appeared twice their actual size. He wore a gray 
sack coat, barely full enough to button around his rotund 
body, and with sleeves so scant that several inches of his 
fat white wrists protruded. Upon his hairless head, appar- 
ently on its very top, was a black Derby hat with a very 
narrow brim, which gave to his smooth round face an 
excruciatingly odd and childlike appearance. Altogether 
he looked not unlike a Brobdingnagian schoolboy, dressed 
iir a suit of well-nigh outgrown clothes. 

It was Mr. Wiseacre’s “working-suit.” 

From a seat at the window of his angular dwelling, he had 
for some time been viewing the movements of his laborers ; 
till finally feeling that the fresh morning air would be 
beneficial, he had sallied forth to assist in the work — 


122 


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that is, in so far as planting himself upon a flat rock and 
offering an occasional suggestion, can truthfully be termed 
assistance. 

He waddled slowly toward the seat which he had in view, 
prodding into the ground first one cane and then the other, 
leaving behind him in the damp soil the prints of his great 
flat feet, and near each print a deep round hole, peculiarly 
suggestive of the tunnel-holes in his own round head. 
When he neared the group of farmers, his mellow, unctuous 
voice broke upon their silence. 

“ Some thirty-fold, some sixty-fold, and some a hundred- 
fold,” he said slowly, surveying them with indescribable 
complacency. 

“Mornin’i mornin’, Mr. Wiseacre!” was the cheery 
greeting from all ; each of whom suddenly looked up from 
his work, as if surprised by his presence. 

“ Good-morrow ! good-morrow, my worthy neighbors and 
pastoral co-operators,” replied he, backing around with 
some difficulty to his selected resting-place. “ And how 
goes the battle ? Has the congelation of the late inclement 
winter sufficiently exuded, that the soil yields readily to 
your vigorous attacks ? ” 

A benign smile accompanied his questions. Gazing for 
a moment from one to the other he dropped to the low rock, 
and removed his hat to wipe the moisture from his bald 
white crown. 

“Wal, putty much,” replied Jenkins, resting on his hoe. 
“It air a shade damp, but not bad fur airly seed. If we 
get a day or two sech as this, they’ll start up middlin’ 
sharp.” 

“Well, Elijah, the atmospherical conditions are signifi- 
cant of a thermometrical rise,” panted Mr. Wiseacre, 
caressing his soft, oily throat. 

“So it air,” was the rather dubious rejoinder; then, 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


123 


desperately: “though April air an onsartin month. How’s 
all your folks ? ” 

“Well — praise be to the King of Kings and Lord of 
Lords ! Their physical organs appear to perform about as 
usual their respective functions. Naomi alone seems to be 
affected by a slight touch of melancholia, but I think I 
rightly conjecture its seat of origin. In fact, I might 
assert that I am sure of it ; for I myself have suffered 
similarly — long ago, Elijah; long ago.” And Mr. Wise- 
acre thoughtfully reverted to his courtship of her who had 
become his — by a very wide margin — better half. 

“By the way,” he continued; “I understand that our 
fellow-townsman, John Godbold, has returned to his domes- 
tic hearth, and premeditates renouncing his maritime 
vocation.” 

“ So I heered tell, though I haven’t seen him ; an’ 
to speak right out in meetin’, I can’t say ez I’m over- 
anxious to, nuther,” Mr. Jenkins bluntly replied. 

“Then he has ceased, has he, to be a corsair of the blue 
and briny?” blandly smiled Mr. Wiseacre, not using the 
substantive literally. 

“ Ez to that,” replied Elijah, stooping for a stone which 
he cast with undue vehemence to a farther side of the lot; 
“ I couldn’t say. But if I wear to speak my mind, I’d say 
the blue an’ briny, ez you call it, air a long way the best 
place fur him.” 

“Careful, Elijah! Judge not, that ye be not judged. 
We must be compassionate and merciful. We should, as 
we view those of others, be mindful of our own foibles and 
failings. True, John is neither a righteous, temperate nor 
congenial man, not a man well adapted to marital relations, 
but let us not forget that he is, nevertheless, a man, and 
one of God’s defeatures.” 

“ It’s neither here nor there to me, Mr. Wiseacre, whether 


124 


Union down 


he stays or goes ; but I do say that, if John Godbold abuses 
his wife ez he’s done in the past, an’ has come home to lay 
on his oars at her cost, I’ll be durned if I can see how he 
comes in the category o’ mankind/’ And the speaker 
vented his worthy indignation on the soil at his feet, until 
the hoe bent in his sturdy hands. 

“Well, you may be right, Elijah — in a degree,” blandly 
answered Mr. Wiseacre, for indignation was a stranger to 
his benevolent breast. “If John don’t shape a proper 
course, we must take him to task. Mrs. Godbold is a very 
worthy woman. Do you kno^V,” with a ludicrous exhibition 
of modest inquisitiveness, “if John brought home any shek- 
els of the realm ? ” 

“Money, do you mean?” 

“Precisely,” bowed Mr. Wiseacre, with a considerate 
smile. 

“I couldn’t say ez to that. If he did, it’s the fust time,” 
replied Mr. Jenkins, moving to another part of the field, 
and leaving the other somewhat isolated and to relapse 
into silence. 

The morning was advanced and the sun quite high in the 
heavens. Mr. Wiseacre felt that he would like to return to 
his book and his seat by the window, but the necessary 
exertion cast a vague sense of depression upon him, like the 
dim recollection of a formidable nightmare. He remained 
where he was, and dreamily mused on the events of the 
past year. 

Uppermost in his mind were thoughts of Manley Claver- 
ing, of the favorable impression which that young man had 
universally made upon his new acquaintances, and of the 
profound interest which he evinced in the thinker’s daugh- 
ter Naomi. 

It was with much satisfaction, and pride, conscientiously 
subdued, that in her Mr. Wiseacre contemplated the prob- 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


125 


able future mistress of the house on the bluff. No informa- 
tion concerning the past of Randolph Clavering’s dead 
wife had come to his ears, and he still was fain to consider 
her an unprincipled or misguided woman, who had paid 
the penalty of her sin ; and frequently had he said to 
himself : 

“ Fortunate ! fortunate, indeed, that the son so resembles 
his noble and generous father ! ” 

Conversation lagged among the farm hands. The exqui- 
site stillness of the country scene was broken only by the 
grating of the tools on the stones, the twittering of thou- 
sands of birds, and the distant shouts of children playing 
near the pond in the hollow meadow across the road. 

Mr. Wiseacre, having rendered what little assistance he 
had had in mind, finally determined to make the effort and 
return to the house. He was about to arise from his seat, 
when he heard Seth Jones exclaim curiously: 

“ Who on airth’s that air ! ” 

Walking leisurely up the road was a well-dressed gen- 
tleman, carrying on his arm a light overcoat. From his 
interested view of the country, he was a stranger, out for a 
morning walk. Various conjectures were in order, but the 
stranger having paused, and appearing to be absorbed in 
contemplation of the distant bay, the farmers shortly 
resumed their work. 

But Mr. Wiseacre, whose bump of curiosity was quite pro- 
nounced, changed his seat for one nearer the road; and 
with a facial expression which fairly constrained address, he 
awaited the unknown gentleman’s approach. 

It was not long before the other drew near, and coming 
within the circle of Mr. Wiseacre’s attraction, he leaned with 
a faint smile againsfrthe fence a few feet from where he was 
seated, and observed pleasantly : 

“A fine morning, sir. You appear to be comfortable.” 


126 


UNION DOWN 


Mr. Wiseacre bowed graciously, his broad face expanding 
in a most felicitous smile. 

“Yes — yes, I am comfortable,” he replied slowly, with 
indescribable unction. “That is to say, sir, comparatively so. 
I am possessed, as you may have noticed, of an extraordi- 
nary quantity of adipose tissue for which to respond ; and, 
veritably, I am at no moment able to positively assert that I 
am, in the aggregate, cognizant of that passive condition 
which we are fain to denominate comfort. But in the major- 
ity, so to speak, I am at present comfortable. In the local- 
ity only of this very hard rock, am I conscious of a feeling 
which isxalien to that of comfort.” 

The slowly spreading smile on the face of the stranger 
developed into an audible laugh, in which Mr. Wiseacre 
genially joined, although in truth he saw no occasion for 
laughter. 

“You are facetious, sir.” 

“Facetious?” said Mr. Wiseacre, in a gentle tone of 
inquiry. “Not I, sir; I am serious. The matter is too 
weighty to be treated facetiously.” 

“Ah!” smiled the other. “Then it remains for me to 
beg your pardon, Mr. — ?” 

“Wiseacre, sir, is my autographical distinction; Marcus 
Wiseacre, at your service.” 

The stranger bowed, regarding him curiously for a 
moment. 

“Thank you, Mr. Wiseacre,” he at length said. “And 
my name is Orlando Sedgewick. I would add, at your ser- 
vice ; but, being a stranger here, I fear that there is no way 
in which I can be of service to you.” 

“My good friend Kant,” beamed Mr. Wiseacre, famil- 
iarly associating himself with the great German philoso- 
pher; “informs us that good-will is the only absolute good. 
In our correlation, then, let us assume the will for the deed. 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST 


127 


So you are a stranger, eh ? A stranger in a strange land, 
as it were.” 

As if he would discover what thought prompted those last 
words, Mr. Sedgewick sent a piercing glance at the face of 
the speaker ; but that beaming countenance was as ingenuous 
as that of a child. 

“May I, without presumption, be permitted to inquire if it 
is your present intention long to honor our humble village 
by your presence?” continued Mr. Wiseacre, in the seventh 
heaven of delight; for he rarely found himself in contact 
with a person felt to be so very worthy of his most polished 
and refined attentions. 

“Well, I can hardly say,” replied Sedgewick. “I am 
advised for my health to spend a few months near the sea. 
I have read somewhat of this section of the coast, and I was 
curious to visit it. Nothing like seeing a place for one’s 
self, you know.” 

“True to the letter, Mr. Sedgewick; and a most glorious 
place this is, during the summer months. A little variable 
for invalids at just this season, but it is rapidly improving. 
You could hardly do better than to pass a summer here. 
You would come in association with many excellent people 
— ahem! and truly such as yourself are everywhere 
welcome.” 

“Thank you,” answered Sedgewick, bowing slightly. 
“But I think it hardly probable that I shall remain as long 
as you suggest. I have observed that there are many attract- 
ive places here ; the people, on the whole, must be well-to- 
do. Mostly farmers or sea-faring men, I presume.” 

“Well, yes, mostly the one or the other. Nearly all con- 
trive to obtain a fair livelihood, some by tilling the soil, 
others by following the blue and briny until frugality has 
enabled them to retire on an income.” 

“Just so,” smiled Sedgewick, well pleased by the drift of 


128 


UNION DOWN. 


the conversation. “Yet I have heard that seamen are not 
much given to the practice of frugality.” 

“Unfortunately that is very true,” replied Mr. Wiseacre 
slowly. “There are by far too many to whom economical 
discipline is distasteful, and who, heedless of the future, live 
but in the pleasures of a brief and fleeting hour. We are 
not exempt from such intemperates. There is John God- 
bold, for example ; who, if I am correctly informed, has just 
retired from his maritime occupation. He has been follow- 
ing the blue and briny for fully thirty years : I doubt if he 
can show for it as many shekels of the realm.” 

“That is indeed a poor showing,” laughed Mr. Sedgewick. 
“ Perhaps he is addicted to drink. That is a habit which 
many a sailor forms to his cost.” 

“Yes, I am sorry to say that he indulges to excess his 
appetite for liquor. Good wine is a good familiar creature, 
if it be well used,” quoted Mr. Wiseacre, unconsciously 
smacking his fat, moist lips; “but, alas! John Godbold 
wants to swim in it.” 

“A sea-captain?” carelessly questioned Sedgewick. 

“Not quite, sir. He was mate, I believe, of the ship — 
let me see, now, I do not recall her name at just 
this” — 

“It is of no consequence whatever,” interposed the other; 
and, feeling quite confident that this Godbold was the man 
he sought, he turned the talk into another channel. “ I 
observe moving over the hill yonder a person who carries 
what looks from here to be a fowling-piece. Is the hunting 
good in this section ? ” 

Mr. Wiseacre squinted and shaded his eyes from the glare 
of the sun, to gaze in the direction indicated. 

“Not at this season of the year,” he at length replied. 
“There is a plentitude of hunting, but a paucity of game. 
If my visual organs serve me with their customary reliability, 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


129 


I may safely affirm that the person whom you see is young 
Manley Clavering.” 

“He certainly appears to be young,” answered Sedgewick, 
with immediate gravity. 

“Yes, it undoubtedly is,” Mr. Wiseacre went on. “He is 
the only son of Randolph Clavering, one of our wealthiest 
and most honorable townsmen. He is a genial and gener- 
ous young man, and is beloved by all who know him. If 
possible, you should meet him. He would animate the 
leaden wings of time for you, and very likely persuade you 
to remain here indefinitely.” 

“Very possibly,” drily answered Mr. Sedgewick, with the 
strangest of strange expressions on his pale face, and still 
steadily gazing at the figure crossing the brow of the distant 
hill. “I have no doubt I shall be so fortunate as to meet 
him ere I leave town. What do you say he is called?” 

“ Manley Clavering. He has been at home only about a 
year, having lived abroad from early childhood. There is 
rather a strange story relative to him and his, which at 
another time I shall be pleased to narrate to you, if you find 
pleasure in hearing of strangers. What! not about to go, 
sir ? ” 

Mr. Sedgewick had taken his coat from the fence, over 
which he had carelessly thrown it, and was about to turn 
away. 

“Yes,” he gravely answered. “It is quite a walk to my 
hotel, and I must bid you good-morning. I hope to have 
the pleasure of meeting you again.” 

“And I, also; I hope so, too,” cried Mr. Wiseacre, rising 
with far more than usual alacrity. “ But it is nearly noon, 
Mr. Sedgewick. I dine very soon. Will you not join me 
and my family ? I reside yonder, close at hand. Let me per- 
suade you to remain till afternoon.” 

“Thank you very heartily,” Sedgewick hurriedly replied; 


130 


UNION DOWN. 


“but not to-day. I must return. I have letters to write. 
I cannot stop.” 

Then, as if he were suddenly impressed that his refusal 
was discourteously abrupt, he added, with a grave but pleas- 
ing smile : 

“ I have but lately arrived in town, Mr. Wiseacre, and 
there are matters which claim my early attention. I thank 
you for your kindness, and on another occasion will be happy 
to avail myself of your hospitality.” 

“Well said!” warmly cried this father of three already 
marriageable daughters, in whose behalf he very likely may 
have had some secret design. “The sooner the better ! ” 

“Thanks again,” replied Sedgewick, pressing the yield- 
ing white hand extended over the fence toward him. 

He again turned to depart, when the air suddenly rang 
with piercing screams, and from the opposite meadow a 
child came running toward them, crying lustily that some 
one had fallen into the pond. 

“A child — in the pond! One of my own! My God!” 

Mr. Wiseacre had turned as white as his immaculate shirt- 
front. As the frenzied words broke from his lips, he grasped 
the uppermost rail of the fence and made an herculean effort 
to vault it ; but the only result was his falling backward, prone 
upon the ground, a huge, quivering, groaning mass of 
agonized humanity. 

Mr. Sedgewick dropped his coat, rapidly crossed the 
road, cleared with a bound the opposite wall, and dashed 
down the gentle declivity toward a pond which met his 
view. Standing near its edge and screaming loudly, were 
several terrified children ; who, seeing him approach, pointed 
fearfully to a spot upon the surface of the water, where a 
disturbance and rising of bubbles indicated a struggling 
unfortunate beneath. 

He could not swim a stroke, but near by lay a leaky old 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


131 


scow, from which the child had evidently fallen. Into this 
he sprang, and reaching its outer edge gazed eagerly into 
the water, dark with mud and trailing grasses. Only for an 
instant, however; then, regardless of personal danger, head- 
foremost over the side he ‘went, into the chilling water. 

He had not erred in judgment, for he immediately came 
in contact with the child, and rose to the surface with her in 
his arms. To his intense relief he found himself able to 
touch bottom; and holding the child above his head he 
waded to the shore, just as Mr. Wiseacre, his farm hands, 
and the majority of his large family, all drawn hither by the 
children’s screaming, arrived on the spot. 

“My — my child! my — zero!” voiced Mr. Wiseacre, 
panting like a steam engine. “God — God bless you, sir!” 

He had seized the dripping burden from Sedgewick’s 
arms, and grasping her by the ankles was now holding her 
at arm’s length and head downward, to the intense horror 
and mortification of the ladies present, who expressed their 
feelings by sundry characteristic cries and expostulations. 

But Mr. Wiseacre, who somewhere had read that this was 
a proper treatment in such an emergency, glared them one 
and all to immediate silence. And the “zero,” who fortu- 
nately had been beneath the surface of the water but a few 
seconds, quickly entered a vigorous protest against being 
subjected to so unnatural and humiliating a position. 

When it was discovered that the immediate danger was 
averted, a feeling of relief manifested itself on the faces of 
all ; and they crowded about the crying child, to the exclu- 
sion of Sedgewick, who modestly drew aside and engaged 
himself in brushing the water from his face and beard. 

This accomplished, he reverted to the group of people; 
when, despite his sorry condition, he suddenly found him- 
self held spellbound by the face of one who was bending 
anxiously near the young victim of the calamity. It was 


132 


UNION DOWN 


a pale, solicitous face, with quivering lips and deeply tender 
eyes, on the lashes of which there trembled glittering tears ; 
a face the like of which it seemed to him that he had never 
seen. 

He gazed on, unobserved, entranced by the touching 
picture, until Naomi Wiseacre, turning slightly, perceived 
him. For the first time in his life, he felt profound embar- 
rassment, redoubled when he saw that she had observed his 
open admiration. With a swift blush mantling her cheeks, 
she quickly approached him, modestly extending her hand 
and saying frankly : 

“They seem to have forgotten you, sir. If words are 
adequate to express one’s gratitude, let me thank you. You 
have spared us a great bereavement.” 

Strangely thrilled by the sound of her rich, tremulous 
voice, Orlando Sedgewick took her hand and bowed. He 
would have replied, save that he could frame no ready 
answer, and in another moment it was too late. Mr. Wise- 
acre had folded him in his arms, and was pouring forth his 
grateful praise through a flood of words and tears. 

“Do not speak of it. It was nothing,” Sedgewick at 
length managed to remonstrate, disengaging himself from 
the impulsive embrace. “But if you will allow me, I 
would suggest a change of clothing for us both. The 
water is very cold.” 

His teeth chattered when he spoke. 

“How thoughtless! how inconsiderate!” cried Mr. 
Wiseacre, with profuse gestures of apology. “ Mother ! 
fly home at once! Fly home and heat some blankets — 
and some rum ! Come, Mr. Sedgewick ! Come, preserver 
of my zero’s life — my happiness! come at once to a 
grateful and doting father’s roof.” 

With the child in her arms, and accompanied by her 
several charming daughters, Mrs. Wiseacre hastened in 


MR. WISEACRE RECEIVES A GUEST. 


133 


advance ; while with Sedgewick Mr. Wiseacre waddled 
after, and at a rate of speed which must have filled all 
observers with amazement. 

Arrived at the house it was found necessary for Mr. 
Sedgewick to retire to bed, no clothing in which he could 
appear being immediately available. This ultimately proved 
fortunate, for the chill to which he had been subjected 
showed its effects ere nightfall, and resulted in a rising 
fever. A physician was called, who decreed that the 
sufferer must for a time remain where he was. 

And so it came to pass that Mr. Wiseacre received into 
his house an unexpected guest. 


CHAPTER XII. 


SHADOWS CAST BEFORE. 

The accidental immersion to which the “zero” had been 
subjected, had no greater effect upon her than to inspire 
her with a lasting dread of like calamity; and no sooner 
was she possessed of dry clothing than she was out again 
with her companions, her childish exuberance not so much 
as dampened. 

Not so, however, her preserver. As the afternoon waned, 
an unusual stillness reigned in and about the Wiseacre 
dwelling. For the first time in many years, the erudite 
lord of the manor had no interest in his book, but devoted 
himself to gliding with marvelous gentleness to and from 
the room in which Sedgewick lay threatened with fever ; or, 
at the first indication of noise from out of doors, appearing 
amongst the offenders and glaring them to quietude. 

The account of the child’s rescue sped with rural celerity 
through the town, and soon the story arrived at the house 
on the bluff. 

As a result, Manley sauntered over early in the evening 
to see the Wiseacre family and learn the particulars. He 
expressed congratulations that the accident had not termi- 
nated more seriously, also appreciation of Mr. Sedgewick’s 
bravery, and a hearty desire to become acquainted with him 
on his recovery. After which he took a short walk with 
Naomi, and finally sauntered back again to the house on 
the bluff. 


134 


SHADOWS CAST BEFORE . 


135 


Orlando Sedgewick, with aching head and burning flesh, 
lay meanwhile in the little bedroom adjoining Mr. Wise- 
acre’s humble parlor, and heard with strange emotions an 
occasional bit of conversation more loudly spoken than the 
general. 

Were these emotions the emanations of an over-heated 
brain/ an excited imagination ? Of what interest could be to 
him the sayings and doings of these people ? Yet, half doz- 
ing, he was fain to see in space an imaginary face ; a face 
with tremulous lips and tearful, pathetic eyes, flooded with 
compassion. And at times he seemed to hear from the 
depths of the unbroken silence the sound of a woman’s 
voice, the tremulous music of which had thrilled him — 
“ They seem to have forgotten you, sir ! let me thank you.” 

He heard in reality Manley Clavering’s tones of inquiry, 
and listened intently; but although the voice was musical 
and the words kind, they seemed to grate harshly on the 
hearing of him who tossed on that feverish pillow. 

Daylight waned and dusk deepened into darkness. 
Through the long hours of the night he tossed on his pil- 
low^his throbbing brain tortured by vague and fantastical 
chimeras, weird and fanciful faces glaring at him out of the 
darkness. 

Now and then he dropped into a doze, only to suddenly 
awaken, moaning and trembling, from a horrible nightmare, 
an awful oppression of waters from which he could not 
escape. 

Well along toward morning he reached from his bed and 
drank long and deep from the pitcher of cool spring water 
which stood on the table near by, then sank back on his pil- 
low to enjoy the refreshing chill which diffused itself 
through his burning system. Ere the assuasive sensation 
was gone, he again fell asleep ; and this time he dreamt a 
dream. 


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UNION DOWN 


It was night. He stood alone on a low sandy spot 
in the middle of the sea. On all sides were tossing 
waters, breaking on the quaking sand in an ever narrow- 
ing circle. 

In each curling wave he saw countless faces, all alike, 
malignant and vengeful, each glowing on the darkness with 
a light of its own ; while from the crests innumerable white 
arms were outstretched with open hands, striving to seize 
him and drag him out into the depths. And when the effort 
proved vain, the mouth in each face seemed to open and 
give vent to a shriek of impotent fury, while the number- 
less hands were wrung as if in desperation or despair, until 
the bitter cries from the receding waters had died away to a 
prolonged and piteous moaning. 

In ungovernable terror he tried to scream, but his voice 
had lost its power, dying upon his lips. Later his terror 
became a frenzy, for the sandy spot whereon he stood was 
slowly sinking, gradually shrinking away, the waves break- 
ing nearer and nearer on every side, the countless out- 
stretched hands fairly touching his garments; and now he 
saw with horror that each face was the face of one whom 
he had never met, but knew to be Manley Clavering. 

Again and again he tried to cry out, but his tongue was 
frozen stiff in his mouth. The vengeful eyes gleamed more 
and more brightly from the exultant faces; the countless 
hands were closing upon him; he felt himself in the grasp 
of fiends, and gave himself up in despair, like one who 
knows he is lost. 

Then, through the darkness which enveloped the sea, he 
saw what looked like a light approaching; but the light 
turned out to be a boat, whiter than snow, with oars of 
silver which glittered brightly, casting up from their long, 
thin blades as they rose showers of radiant stars, which 
ascended heavenward and illumined all the scene around 


SHADOWS CAST BEFORE. 


137 


him. And when the eager arms were dragging him down, 
the boat was at hand and the rower seized him, lifting him 
to safety; when a fierce and prolonged shriek of disappoint- 
ment uprose from the turbulent waters, and the ominous 
faces disappeared from his view. 

Then he dropped on his knees at the feet of his saviour, 
and his lifted eyes saw before him a woman, clothed in a 
robe of white ; a woman with tremulous lips and tearful, 
pathetic eyes, overflowed with compassion. 

He wept in gratitude at her feet, clasping her about the 
knees, and crying aloud that he loved her; but she held 
him off, quaking and shrinking in his arms; and now he 
saw with horror what before he had not noticed — the face 
of the woman was black ! As black as the darkness which 
lately had hung about him. 

He cried wildly for its cause, yet she would not speak; 
but, bowing her head, her face distorted as if by insufferable 
anguish, she loosed herself from his grasp and began to 
slowly recede, upward, angel-like, toward heaven. With 
breaking heart he called upon her to return, but she heeded 
not, finally fading from his sight; and he fell to his face in 
the snow-white boat, wailing piteously in his overwhelming 
grief. 

But soon he heard a voice, the voice of a child ; and rais- 
ing his head he found himself in green meadows, where 
flowers were blooming on every side. And he beheld at a 
little distance the same woman, her face white now and of 
angelic sweetness; and by her side, holding her hand and 
leading her toward him, was the child — a child with a 
halo of golden hair and with wondrous blue eyes, as blue as 
the skies above. And both were tenderly beckoning for 
him to come to them, while the child cried out in piping 
tones of joyous exultation — 

“ See ! see what God has done ! ” 


138 


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Next morning when Mr. Wiseacre entered the room in 
which Orlando Sedgewick lay, he found his guest peacefully 
sleeping, a smile on his face, a gentle moisture on his 
broad white brow. And so he left him, and hastened to 
impart the joyous information to his wife and family. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


JOHN GODBOLD DISCOVERS A GOLD MINE. 

After the short walk taken with Naomi, to which refer- 
ence was made in the previous chapter, Manley Clavering 
returned to the house on the bluff. 

Instead of entering, however, he skirted the veranda 
and paused to gaze in for a moment at the library window. 
Evidently not specially pleased by what he saw, he soon 
moved on again, and finally seated himself on the very brink 
of the bluff, high above the sea. He looked like a man 
dissatisfied, either with himself or others. 

Though possessed of a warm, genial, and for the most 
part generous nature, he was quite without judgment and 
discretion, and from earliest boyhood had habitually yielded 
to his impulses with scarce a glance at consequences. 

As a result, he had not unfrequently found himself in a 
position where self-sacrifice became essential to honor. 
He would not have deliberately conspired to his own wel- 
fare at the cost of another’s, but once entangled in trouble- 
some meshes, or at least in an affair of such gravity that the 
sacrifice of self would require nobility of character, his fear 
of disparagement and of censure might have led him to 
shrink from conscientious duty. In such a case he perhaps 
would have disputed his position with the desperate resolu- 
tion of a bravo. 

But this phase of his character had never been forced to 
the surface, and so he perhaps was not worse than many 

139 


140 


UNION- DOWN. 


another, who has likewise gone from the cradle to the grave 
and left a laudable name behind him. 

Twilight had deepened into darkness, but the moon was 
shining. The tide had just begun to flood, and the gentle 
ripple of the waters on the shore below rose faintly to his 
ears. Far off in the bay several great sand flats, white in 
the moonlight, lay low upon the darker surface of the sea. 
They were gradually growing smaller, shrinking slowly away 
beneath the coverlid of rising waters, as if eager to conceal 
their striking nakedness. The dark shadow of the bluff 
whereon he sat, was clearly defined on the yellow beach 
sand far below him. 

It was a charming picture in the stillness of the early 
evening, but it had no charm for the eyes of the solitary 
sitter. The long, gleaming ray from the lighthouse three 
miles away seemed like a flaming finger, pointing straight at 
him. Yet he sat there for half an hour or longer, absorbed 
in thought, and with troubled face and knitted brows. 

When at length he arose, it was as one arises when 
impelled by sudden resolution. He abruptly threw away 
his dead cigar and strode rapidly toward the house. 

‘•Where is Clara?” he demanded, with unusual blunt- 
ness, as he entered the library. 

Mr. Clavering was reading at the table. The expression 
of pleasure which rose over his face at his son’s approach, 
faded somewhat when he observed the young man’s 
clouded countenance. 

“Clara? I — I really don’t know,” he faltered doubt- 
fully. “What is the matter, Manley? Has anything gone 
wrong, my dear boy ? ” 

“Not at all, father,” and the speaker forced a smile and 
tossed his head, as if by the action he would have cast out 
the troubled thoughts it persisted in retaining. “I am 
about to take a short walk and I wish Clara’s company.” 


JOHN GODBOLD DISCOVERS A GOLD MINE . 141 


“Good, my dear Manley! that is right. In just such an 
evening as this should a girl’s heart be found susceptible. 
Seek her, Manley, my dear boy, and take her for a walk.” 

Randolph Clavering’s hope sounded in his words and 
showed in his brightened countenance. 

In appearance he had aged during the past year. His 
brow was furrowed more deeply, his face more haggard, his 
general aspect more broken, than on that summer morning 
when first he was presented. This would seem strange, 
when one considers what had occurred at that time. Could 
it be possible that the son for whom he had yearned so pite- 
ously, whom he had greeted so joyously, and whom he since 
had grown to fairly worship, nevertheless fell short in some 
way of his expectations ? 

“Find her is easily said,” laughed Manley, crossing the 
room and laying a tender hand on the old gentleman’s 
shoulder. “ Think a moment. Did she not say where she 
was going?” 

“Say — yes, yes, of course she did! I never knew Clara 
to leave the house without informing me whither she was 
going. Strange — strange how my memory cajoles me of 
late. Manley, my dear boy, it must be that I am breaking. 
I half believe that one of these fine mornings I shall fail to 
wake.” 

An expression of intense anxiety crossed the almost 
colorless face of the speaker, and his thin hands shook so 
violently that his paper fell rustling to the floor. The 
young man standing above him frowned a little, but said 
warmly : 

“Nonsense, dear father! You are good for a score of 
years to come. Think a moment, dear,” and the impatience 
betrayed in his handsome dark eyes was carefully withheld 
from his gentle voice. “Did she not say that she was 
going to make a call? or that she” — 


142 


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“ Stay, stay, I have it ! ” came the interruption, with 
almost childish delight. “To Mrs. Godbold’s — that is 
where she said she was going. Strange I could have for- 
gotten. It is time she should return. It has grown dark 
outside, has it not? Go and meet her, Manley, my boy; 
and — well, well, you know my wish. Go and meet her. 
Strange how forgetful I am growing.” 

Manley Clavering bent and touched his lips to the brow 
of the old man, who now sat muttering with peevish irrita- 
tion against his mental decay ; then, standing erect, he 
gazed down on the bowed, shaking head, whitened by time 
and seared by sorrow, and there crossed the young man’s 
face a transitory expression which appeared a fearful libel 
on the kiss he had bestowed. 

“Good-night, dear father,” he said softly. “You may 
have retired before I # return.” 

“Yes, yes, so I shall, my boy. I am going to bed very 
soon. I am not strong, not near as strong as I was. Good- 
night, my boy. God bless you! There — go! go and 
meet Clara.” 

No further bidding was required, and the young man hur- 
ried from the room. The father gazed after him, still with 
that strange expression of disappointment vivid in his hue- 
less face. From the day of their meeting, nearly one year 
before, scarce a word had passed between them concerning 
the wife and mother who had died in China. Truly, indeed, 
they had let the past lie buried with her. 

Disdaining the village road and taking a shorter way 
across the meadows, Manley hastened from the house on 
the bluff and turned his steps in the direction of John God- 
bold’s modest dwelling. 

Had he given the matter special thought, the name of 
Godbold might indeed have struck him as being familiar; 
but during his homeward voyage he had had but little inter- 


JOHN GOD BOLD DISCOVERS A GOLD MINE . 143 


course with the third mate of the Bounding Wave, and it is 
very doubtful if he had recalled when and where he had 
heard it. 

No thought of it entered his head, however; but with 
mind bent on the resolute purpose with which he had risen 
from his seat on the bluff, he hurried onward, all uncon- 
scious that his eager steps were bearing him toward an old 
acquaintance, and one who was to become a most vexatious 
obstacle in the way of his impulsive designs. 

The distance was soon covered, and assuming an ease 
which for some time he had been far from feeling, he 
rapped at the door of the seaman’s cottage. The summons 
was quickly answered by the mistress of the house. 

Mrs. Godbold was a very tall, very thin, and very yellow 
woman. The tallness and thinness were natural ; the yel- 
lowness was acquired. This latter quality resulted from an 
affection of the liver, commonly termed jaundice, superin- 
duced in this particular case by long-continued melancholy 
and painful emotions, and which in time had become a 
structural disease. 

The origin of these emotions might easily have been 
traced to the depraved habits and reprehensive conduct of 
her husband. John Godbold at twenty had been compara- 
tively likely and attractive ; John Godbold at forty was 
incomparably the reverse. The woman had married the 
former. Twenty years of shattered anticipations had had 
their effect. What wonder if that effect was jaundice ? 

Though jaundice is not usually supposed to affect the 
mind, yet in this case such seems to have been its action. 
Mrs. Godbold’s favorite color, perhaps not unnaturally, was 
yellow. Her dresses were invariably yellow, relieved in 
rare instances by a faded white dotting. Her hats were all 
of yellow straw, tied with yellow ribbons, and so in color 
was her bonnet, when by rare good fortune she possessed 


144 


UNION DOWN 


one. Her neckerchiefs were never other than yellow, and 
of a peculiar shade which rendered the line of demarkation 
between neck and neckerchief hardly discernible. 

Such was the extraordinary appearance of Mrs. Godbold, 
an appearance mensurably vivified when viewed by chance 
in a ray of yellow sunlight; and such was the saffron indi- 
vidual who timidly opened the door in response to Manley 
Clavering’s gentle rap. 

“Good-evening, Mrs. Godbold,” bowed he, politely. “I 
have called expecting to find my sister here. Am I right?” 

“Oh, it is you, Mr. Manley,” said she, in tones so sub- 
dued as to be hardly audible ; and, with a sigh of relief, she 
opened the door several degrees and requested him to 
enter. “I thought perhaps it was John, though John don’t 
often take the pains to rap” — she might truthfully have 
added, unless he raps me! “Yes, Clara is here, Mr. 
Manley. Come right into the parlor.” 

And she ushered him into a small front room, poorly fur- 
nished with several yellow chairs, a table, some few orna- 
ments and a set of chintz curtains, the latter once white, 
but now faded to the all-prevailing hue. 

Clara, as sweetly pretty as ever, greeted her foster- 
brother with a smile of welcome. 

“Ah, it is indeed you, Manley,” said she, with a faint 
blush. 

“And does that surprise you, sister mine?” smiled he, 
taking a seat beside her on the sofa, and laying his hat 
with a sort of affectionate freedom on her lap. 

“Not at all. I would not have remained so late, but 
that I was sure I should not be obliged to return home 
alone.” 

“Thanks for your confidence, dear, but suppose I had 
failed you ?” 

“ Then I would have taken your place,” put in Mrs. God- 


JOHN GODBOLD DISCOVERS A GOLD MINE . 145 


bold, with a faint and faded smile ; “ though I should really 
have been a most unworthy substitute for so fine a young 
man.” And her timid, lack-lustre face was transfigured by 
a remarkable combination of red and yellow, hardly to be 
called a blush. 

“ Indeed,” laughed Clara, with an amusing air of affect- 
ation ; “I should have waited and pressed your husband 
into my service. Since he has returned home to remain, I 
must cultivate his friendship.” 

Mrs. Godbold made no reply, but the expression of her 
saffron countenance was so ludicrously dubious that Clara, 
who knew her marital woes, irresistibly broke out laughing; 
in which Mrs. Godbold joined, when the utter ridiculous- 
ness of the project penetrated her rather obtuse mind. 

“Your husband ?” remarked Manley, who saw no occa- 
sion for mirth. “ I was not aware, Mrs. Godbold, that he 
was living. Let me congratulate you on being better pro- 
vided for than I had imagined.” 

There was in his tone a faint touch of irritation, noticed 
by Clara only, who gently laid her hand on his arm. 

“Thanks,” replied Mrs. Godbold, with grim dryness. 
“ It’s a wonder he has not returned before this. Perhaps 
you would like to meet him.” 

“ I assure you so,” Manley answered more graciously. 
“ I shall be very glad to wait his coming.” 

But Clara, rising at once, said quickly : 

“ Not to-night, Manley; some other time. It is already 
late, and we must be on our way home.” 

She did not then wish her brother, whom she instinct- 
ively felt to be somewhat out of sorts, to encounter John 
Godbold. SJie knew the latter’s characteristics, and she 
feared lest a meeting should prove disagreeable. 

But they already had lingered too long. She had hardly 
resumed her light shawl, when a rear door of the house was 


146 


UNION DOWN. 


rudely thrown open, and a heavy step and heavier voice 
were heard from the adjoining room. 

“ Ahoy, there, stupid ! What yer doin’ in the cabin ? 
Ain’t the fo’castle trim enough fur a fo’mast hand ? ” 

There were sounds of a heavy body hurled to a table, 
and the stride of the speaker approaching the door. Mrs. 
Godbold, her saffron hue fading to a greenish pallor, hur- 
riedly arose ; while Clara, stepping to a small mirror on the 
wall, nervously busied herself in adjusting her hat. 

Neither of the women chanced to observe Manley, when 
John Godbold’^ stentorian voice rolled through the house. 
It was fortunate for him, for every vestige of color vanished 
from his cheeks. He had instantly recognized the voice of 
the man who had sewed Ben Brandon in his canvas coffin. 
He sprang trembling to his feet, his hand seizing a chair 
for support, his lip quivering in overwhelming alarm. 

This was but momentary, however. With spiteful energy 
he mastered his emotions, his teeth snapping together in 
the intensity of his mental action ; and taking one step 
toward the open door, the look which he bestowed on the 
late third mate of the Bounding Wave when he entered, 
was far more impressive and effective than any spoken com- 
mand could possibly have been. 

John Godbold, who had thought his wife to be alone, 
stopped short just over the threshold, and stared in blank 
amazement at Manley’s colorless face. But the seaman 
was not drunk. He instantly read in that fierce, command- 
ing look the motive which prompted it; and, with a secret 
thrill of exultation, he pulled off his oil-skin hat in an awk- 
ward attempt at politeness. 

“Beggee pardon, sir,” he gruffly cried, with something 
very closely approaching a triumphant leer at Manley. “I 
didn’t know there were strangers aboard the craft, else I 
might a hauled alongside ’thout boardin’ so fiercely. 


JOHN GOD BOLD DISCOVERS A GOLD MINE. 147 


Miss Clavering, I’m glad to see yer, an’ I hope yer wa’n’t 
skeered.” 

“Indeed, no, Mr. Godbold,” sweetly replied Clara, with 
a laugh that sounded rather forced; and though she had 
seen reflected in the mirror the amazement of the seaman 
when he entered, she now in no way betrayed the thought 
uppermost in her mind. 

“You seamen,” she added genially; “are characterized 
the world over by your hearty and boisterous good-nature. 
I am glad to see you safe at home again. Let me make 
you acquainted with my brother Manley.” 

“Glad to know yer, Mr. Clavering,” cried Godbold, read- 
ily dropping the name of Raymond, by which he formerly 
had known him, and taking instead the most natural. 

Manley pressed his proffered hand with indubitable 
significance. 

“Thank you,” said he, with a sharp gaze bent on the 
seaman’s eyes ; then, pointedly : “ Since you are at home 
for good, we may meet frequently. I have a nice yacht 
in the bay. Come aboard and make her acquaintance — 
and, I may add, my own.” 

“ I’m obleeged for the invite, sir,” was the reply, with a 
cunning nod. “I’ll board yer right soon, sir.” 

“ My friends are always welcome,” carelessly added 
Manley ; then, to his sister : “ Are you ready, Clara ? You 
will pardon our rather abrupt departure, Mr. Godbold, but 
we were about going when you entered. How is the tide 
this evening — sufficiently low for a walk on the beach ?” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” replied the seaman, reading aright the 
secret purpose of the question, so pointedly was it put. 
“Its about half-flood, sir, an’ the moon ain’t sunk as yet.” 

“ A pleasant way for us to return home, then. I am 
fond of the beach by moonlight. Come over when you can 
and see my yacht.” 


148 


UNION DOWN 


“So I will, Mr. Clavering; so I will, sir. Whereabouts 
is she moored?” 

“ Right off the ruins of the old wharf, Mr. Godbold ; you 
can’t mistake her. Good-night to you.” 

Mrs. Godbold, who in the presence of her husband invari- 
ably sank into obscurity, now moved to attend her callers to 
the door ; while the seaman, rubbing together his horny 
hands, returned to the kitchen through which he had 
entered. 

“ A fine night fur a walk on the beach, eh ? ” he 
muttered, with a laugh which was ominous from its very 
joyousness. “Why, that ’ere's a shrewd and cunning 
powder-monkey arter all. Yet I might a knowed it, 
sense he’s sailed away once afore from under my guns. I 
wonder did the young woman guess he meant that fur a 
meetin’ with me ? Not likely, sense the best on ’em don’t 
know over-much. So he flies the flag o’ distress, does he? 
Aha, John!” and with a villainous laugh he bestowed on 
his powerful thigh a resounding blow; “yer’re in luck fur 
once in yer life ! Yer’ve the wheel in your own hands. 
Cuss it, man ! yer’ve diskivered a gold mine ! ” 

But despite his hideous inward glee, he outwardly was 
grim and -repulsive when his wife entered; and when she 
timidly asked whither he was bound, for he was donning 
a thick reefer, he replied with face as black as thunder: 
“That’s none o’ yer d — n business, stupid, so hold yer wind 
or I’ll stop it for yer ! ” 

Then he left the house and strode rapidly across the 
damp meadows, shaping his course for that part of the 
beach off which Manley Clavering’s yacht lay, swinging 
sleepily on the flooding tide. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


FISHING. 

Whatever Manley’s resolution when he started in 
search of his foster-sister, it was for a time completely 
expelled from his mind by the unexpected discovery that 
John Godbold, whose viciousness he readily recalled, was 
his near neighbor. 

While immediate fear had impelled him to quell recogni- 
tion on the part of the seaman, he could not have told, in 
the calmness of later thought, how that mere recognition 
were to have done him material injury. 

On reflection he assured himself that Godbold could 
not have become informed of his almost criminal negli- 
gence of Nancy Brandon, for he could conceive of no 
means by which the seaman was to have learned the 
identity of the stranger buried from the deck of the 
Bounding Wave, he himself having been his sole confidant 
and adviser. 

Moreover Manley’s chief object, the attainment of which 
had in a measure necessitated this neglect of Nancy, was so 
obscurely hidden as to preclude discovery by Godbold 
alone; and feeling thus assured, Manley already regretted 
his impulsive self-betrayal to the seaman, who he feared 
might attempt to turn it to personal advantage. 

Such was the tenor of his thoughts as he walked slowly 
homeward with his sister. Had he known that John 
Godbold was informed of his treachery to Benjamin 

149 


150 


UNION DOWN 


Brandon, he would have had ample reason for congratula- 
ting himself on his late discretion. 

Clara could not but notice her companion’s self-absorp- 
tion, and vaguely feared that the cause was not wholly 
alien to the unexpected meeting of the evening. Though of 
a far from suspicious nature, she somehow dreaded to 
inquire the reason for what she felt certain to have observed 
in John Godbold’s cottage. 

For some time, therefore, their silence was unbroken; 
but, glancing up half timidly, she at length remarked : 

“ I think you must have forgotten, Manley, to return by 
the way of the beach.” 

Her voice roused him from his anything but agreeable 
reverie. He realized that a deception initiated must of 
necessity be maintained, and that taciturnity might awaken 
suspicion. He answered: 

“Not exactly, dear. I came to the conclusion that a 
walk on the damp sand might prove a pernicious enjoy- 
ment.” 

“How very thoughtful,” said Clara, demurely. 

“Was I not?” 

“And what a sudden metamorphosis.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“Only this morning you were vaunting your robust 
constitution.” 

“Belay there! as John Godbold would say,” cried Man- 
ley, laughing. “You are becoming artful, sister mine. 
You should know I was not thinking of myself.” 

“I should hope not, at least,” smiled Clara; “if the cloud 
on your face was a reflection of the thought.” 

His own heart accusing- him, he was a little startled by 
her keen diversion of his meaning, and he flashed a quick 
glance at her fair, ingenuous face. That alone was enough 
to assure him of her frankness. He could not believe her 


FISHING. 


151 


capable of beating about the bush. Yet he laughed a little 
nervously and made no reply. 

“I am afraid, Manley,” she continued, after a brief 
silence; “that you will not find Mr. Godbold a very enjoy- 
able companion, or friend, rather, as you called him.” 

The remark was made in the hope that he would offer 
some explanation of the seaman’s very apparent surprise, or 
at least mention having observed it ; but Manley, unaware 
that she had noticed it, did neither. He laughed contempt- 
uously, and said rather peevishly : 

“Friend, indeed! Is it characteristic of me to select my 
friends from men of his class ? ” 

“No, Manley, dear; of course not. I only recalled what 
you said to him. You know you invited him to visit the 
yacht.” 

“That was merely a casual act of courtesy. I was rather 
startled by his rough manner and repulsive appearance, and 
for the moment scarce knew what I said. There is little 
liability, I imagine, of his accepting the invitation ; but if he 
does there will be no harm, for I can if necessary teach him 
his place. When you spoke of Mrs. Godbold’s husband, I 
naturally thought of a gentleman, not a ruffian. I never 
had seen him, and I wish never to again.” 

He had scarcely made this statement ere he regretted it, 
for it surely must be an easy matter for the seaman to prove 
the contrary, should occasion require. This after-thought 
irritated him the more. He felt that he was needlessly 
entangling himself ; indeed, had already done so. 

As for Clara, she thought that not once in all the time he 
had been at home had he appeared so out of sorts. Yet 
she somehow felt relieved by his last assertion. 

“ Don’t be cross, Manley, dear,” she laughed assuasively. 
“ You would not have me think you splenetic. I referred 
to Mr. Goldbold only because I thought he seemed sur- 


152 


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prised when he saw you, and that perhaps you had met 
him heretofore'” 

“Nonsense, Clara! Where should I have met such a 
ruffian ? He probably was surprised only at seeing strangers 
aboard his craft, as he called -his house. Pray let us find 
a more worthy topic of conversation.” 

There was another period of silence, during which Man- 
ley again became lost in grim forebodings. What folly had 
been his, thought he, in so positively denying the acquaint- 
ance of the seaman. Now he was in a mess, over head, 
neck and ears. John Godbold must be silenced at what- 
ever cost, and Manley knew well enough what it would 
mean, should the seaman realize his power. 

“Are you cross, Manley?” 

So fond was Clara’s tone, so resistless her face when she 
looked up at him, that he broke into a laugh which transfig- 
ured him. He impulsively threw his arm around her and 
drew her closer to his sturdy figure. 

“ Cross with you ! ” he cried softly, his voice thrilled by a 
great tenderness. “ My sweetest of all loved ones, none 
should know the contrary so well as you. Cross with you! 
that can never be.” 

“ Never is a long day, Manley. Please let me go, and don’t 
be silly.” She had yielded for just a moment to his loving 
embrace, then quickly drew away. “You know I object to 
your doing that,” she added, mildly checking him; yet she 
averted her face to hide the blush which so belied her words. 

“Silly? Is my love” — he suddenly dropped the pas- 
sionate avowal to which he would have given words, and 
diverted to a grieved and almost sullen tone. “Ah, well, 
turn away and put me by again, if you will. The time may 
come, dear Clara, when you will regret these many aver- 
sions; when you will be ready to hear me, and to treat 
more kindly one who ” — 


FISHING. 


153 


“ Manley ! ” She broke in upon him, dwelling most ten- 
derly on the utterance of his name. “ I do not mean to be 
unkind to you. Am I really so ? ” 

“Ask yourself,” said he petulantly, ignoring her infinite 
gentleness. “You refuse lo hear the words which, of all 
words, I would soonest speak. My attentions seem to 
please you, yet you repel the cry of my heart. You know 
what I mean, Clara, and at times you force me to envy my 
dog, even; for when I see you bestow on him the caresses 
for which I yearn, I feel that you can treat him more kindly 
than you can treat me.” 

“Oh, Manley!” 

She had turned on him as if dealt a blow ; her lips quiver- 
ing, her flooded eyes so piteously grieved, that the paleness 
in the face of her companion gave place to a burning blush 
of shame. He caught her hand in both of his, crying most 
regretfully: 

“Forgive me, Clara, dear Clara! I am sorry — very, very 
sorry — for speaking like that! I was wrong, thoughtless, 
as I always am when alone with you ! But I — oh, Clara!” 
he broke forth, as if his passion were beyond containing; 
“ you must know how madly I love you ! My every word, 
look, action, declare it. You should know how I struggle 
daily and hourly to keep myself from falling at your feet. 
Why do you still compel me to endure this suspense ? Why 
not confide in me, if there are reasons to constrain you from 
my wishes ? Oh, Clara, if you do not care for me, if you 
do not love me — love me with the kind of love for which I 
yearn, that love which would serve to make you my wife — 
why not tell me so at once and end it ? and let me go and 
drown myself in the bay! ” 

There was something terribly genuine in this wild earn- 
estness. His face had grown pale again, and tears were 
standing in the eyes through which he gazed at her so 


154 


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pleadingly. He was trembling visibly under his stress of 
emotions. 

Clara had made no attempt to stay his impetuous, almost 
despairing appeal. Only the paleness which overspread 
her face showed that she was inwardly moved. Yet when 
she replied, her calm earnestness, the determination in her 
grave, moist eyes, revealed a vein of firmness in her char- 
acter, forced now to the surface for the first time. 

“ Drown yourself, Manley? Don’t speak like that. 
There is none who would mourn more deeply than I any 
misfortune befallen you. Dear brother, this is not in keep- 
ing with the promise you made me. You were not again to 
speak of these things until I gave you permission. Can you 
not trust me, Manley? Can you not believe that, when the 
time comes in which I may listen, I myself will tell you?” 

“ But I cannot understand your reason of delay,” he 
pleaded piteously. 

“That there are reasons, Manley, should be sufficient,” 
said Clara, in tenderest appeal. “Come, dear, let us talk 
of something else.” 

“So we will, then,” was the gentle though reluctant 
compliance. “Only don’t forget, Clara, if I do restrain 
myself, if I do comply with your wish — please don’t forget 
how devotedly I love you ! Please don’t misinterpret my 
silence, and feel that my love has begun to wane ! Prom- 
ise me this, at least.” 

“As you observe my wish in this respect, so will I 
esteem your affection,” she answered softly, and with 
inexpressible sadness. 

Though deeply versed in the mysteries and intricacies of 
the human heart, Manley Clavering had here found one 
that baffled his comprehension. The remainder of the dis- 
tance was walked for the most part in silence. When they 
neared the house on the bluff, Clara said gently : 


FISHING. 


155 


“ You will not think me unkind, Manley?’' 

He laughed that low, musical laugh of his, and drew her 
hand to his lips, where he held it pressed for several 
moments. When he removed it, he replied with iufinite 
fondness : 

“I can think of you as most lovable only, my sweet 
Clara. You are to me all there is of heaven. Here we 
are at home again. Go in at once, dear, for it has grown 
chilly, and you are not very warmly clad.” 

They had reached the foot of the veranda steps, where 
he had paused, still holding her hand and gazing down into 
her eyes. 

“Are you not coming, Manley? ” she asked in some sur- 
prise. 

“Not quite yet, dear. I want a bit of solitude and reflec- 
tion. I will smoke a cigar and walk about awhile on the 
bluff. I shall not remain long. Good-night, dear.” 

She could not part from him thus. There was a piteous 
resignation in his gentleness, in his tenderly spoken words. 
It went straight to her heart of hearts. She looked up 
through fast gathering tears and said : 

“No, don’t think me unkind, Manley! Don’t think me 
unappreciative of your great affection. I am not, Manley; 
indeed I am not! Only be patient — just for a little 
while!” 

What need for him to ask if she loved him! Love 
spoke in her every word, cried out in her tremulous voice, 
burned in her glowing cheek and eloquent eyes. He saw 
it, felt it, knew it — but he could not understand her. 

He strained her yielding form to his breast for a 
moment, whispering passionately : 

“ So I will, dear, dear Clara! I will annoy you no more. 
Only remember, loved one, that I am always waiting, always 
looking for the sign that I may speak, always hoping and 


156 


UNION DOWN 


praying and loving 1 Go in to bed, dear one, and may your 
dreams tell you how deeply and truly I love you ! ” 

He bent and kissed her on the lips, while something like 
a great surging sob shook him from head to foot. 

Clara could not trust herself to speak further. She hast- 
ened up the steps and into the hall, thence to fly to the 
solitude of her chamber. Here she threw herself upon her 
bed and buried her face in her pillow, to yield with all the 
abandonment of tender girlhood to those emotions which 
with difficulty had been so long subdued. 

When at length she arose to disrobe for the night, she 
approached the window to gaze out for a moment over the 
moonlit bluff. Manley was just returning to the house, 
walking with hands thrust into his pockets and his head 
bowed to his breast. Clara impulsively pressed her white 
fingers to her lips, and threw toward him a kiss born of the 
purest affection, then turned away with pale face and 
throbbing heart, to murmur with piteous intensity : 

“ Poor, dear Manley ! Heaven forgive you, Margaret 
Dawson ! Heaven forgive you, if you trifle with him and 
with me — with my confidence and my love — if you torture 
me thus without reason 1” 

Parting from Clara, Manley watched her till the closing 
door shut her from view, then walked slowly away to lean 
moodily against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, his 
pale face working painfully under the conflict taking place 
within him. It was a conflict which may only be imagined ; 
a battle with self and with dishonor. 

For a long time he stood there, his eyes bent upon the 
ground at his feet, his mind turned upon the riot within, 
only at length to raise his clenched hand high above his 
head and cry in remorseful anguish : 

“Oh, Christ! and I so unworthy — so frightfully unwor- 
thy ! God above ! what is ever to redeem me and lift me 


FISHING. 


15 1 

to her level? Oh, if only I had never taken the first step! 
What am I to do? What course can I now pursue? To 
go on is worse than ruin ! To turn back is ” — 

He stopped abruptly and looked off toward the beach. 
A sudden and painful recollection had taken possession of 
him, and sent to his face the desperate expression of one 
felt to be hunted. Half in anger, Half in despair, he strode 
fiercely across the bluff. Dashing recklessly down the 
steep pathway to the beach, he hurried away in the direc- 
tion of the old wharf. 

As he neared the ruins, whose bleached spiles rose like 
ghastly spectres from the dark surface of the water, he 
moderated his pace and lighted a cigar. 

At a little distance he saw the object of this night visit to 
the beach. On the gunwale of a white tender, which the 
tide had left high and dry upon the shore, was seated the 
whilom third mate of the Bounding Wave, a stubby pipe 
between his lips and a grim smile of satisfaction on his griz- 
zled features. 

Manley walked carelessly nearer, gazing curiously at him, 
much as if he would read the thoughts back of his repulsive 
countenance, its sinister expression clearly revealed by the 
pale rays of the sinking moon. 

The seaman was the first to speak. “Wal, I’m here, Mr. 
Raymond,” said he, in a deep gutteral tone. 

Manley flushed hotly, and moved to a position from 
which he could not see the name painted on the stern of 
the tender. In his present state of mind, a thought of 
Clara was painful ; and the five dark letters of the name 
seemed to stand out with mocking vividness from their 
white ground. 

“ So I see,” he answered coldly. “ My name is not 
Raymond; it is Clavering! Please bear that in mind in 
the future, and govern yourself accordingly.” 


158 UNION DOWti. 

\ 

This calm sternness was almost a menace, while the 
flush fading from his face had left him pale and frowning. 

Without moving from his seat on the low gunwale, John 
Godbold replied with an ominously impudent laugh : 

“ Ay, ay, Mr. Clavering, an’ I beg yer pardon. It must 
be my memory slipped her cable, fur the last flag I call to 
mind seein’ at yer maintop were lettered Raymond.” 

“ It is not unusual for a passenger to adopt an assumed 
name,” answered Manley, subduing his anger wakened by 
the seaman’s insolence. “I had reasons for so doing when 
I embarked in the Bounding Wave ; reasons which concern 
none other than myself, and least of all that vessel’s third 
mate. In the future, remember that to you, as to all men, 
my name is Manley Clavering ! ” 

The seaman’s countenance darkened slightly, while his 
small, steadfast eyes began to glitter more viciously. 

“ Port yer helm ! ” he said bluntly. “ Port yer helm, 
Mr. Raymond — or Clavering, whichever suits yer best. 
It’s folly, man, fur yer to whistle up a wind when yer’ve 
found smooth waters to fish in.” 

“To fish in ?” 

“ Ay, ay, man ; to fish in,” said Godbold, with a dry 
laugh. “ Didn’t yer shape this course in order to drop a line ? 
It air no new occupation, that o’ fishin’ fur information, 
though it’s offen the least payin’. Yer need a extra-sharp 
hook, man ; an’ harkee, yer bait’s an all-important matter.” 

Manley frowned more darkly on the scoundrel seated 
there below him. The seaman’s calm assurance awakened 
his further dread, yet he constrained himself from betrayal 
of his feelings, and answered haughtily : 

“I do not understand you, Mr. Godbold. I certainly 
desire no information of which you may be possessed; and 
as to my coming this way, I frequently do so of an evening 
in order to look to my moorings. Such was my purpose 


FISHING. 


159 


to-night. If you have imagined otherwise, you are in 
error.” 

‘‘Come about!” John Godbold now cried angrily, half 
rising from his seat. “Come about, I say! I tell yer, 
man, there’s breakers ahead if yer hold yer course — ay! 
an’ rocks what’ll chaw a hole in yer bow an’ strand yer!” 

“ What do you mean ? ” demanded Manley, scornfully, his 
eyes beginning to glow. 

“ Mean ! ” fiercely growled the seaman, shaking his frouzy 
head. “ I mean this ! Me an’ you ain’t no strangers, an’ 
yer know it. Yer knew it when yer glared me to silence in 
my own cabin a short time back. I were keen enough to 
see what yer wanted then, an’ I’m keen enough to see what 
yer want now. My needle pints too true fur me to run 
much out o’ my course. Yer may say yer didn’t fly the 
inverted flag, that yer didn’t as much as tell me to meet yer 
here on the beach to-night, an’ that yer didn’t run off here 
to the suthard hopin’ to cross my bow; but I tell yer yer 
did — an’ yer have good reasons to a done so, too ! ” 

“ Bah ! ” cried Manley contemptuously, yet wavering at 
heart. “What an idea! I confess I did not wish you to 
recognize me, or call me by a wrong name; for, on my 
arrival from China, I spent some little time over matters of 
my own, ancbof which I do not wish my father to learn. I 
did not come directly home, a fact of which I have kept him 
in ignorance. You talk like a fool. What possible reason 
can I have had for doing as you have said ? ” 

John Godbold now laughed in direful good-humor. 

“ Call up from the deep the spirit o’ the poor devil yer 
prayed fur, an’ ask that,” he cried maliciously, his gray eyes 
glittering in the moonlight like the eyes of a rat. 

Manley turned deathly pale. His knees shook beneath 
him, and the cigar fell from his lips and lay hissing on the 
damp beach sand at his feet. 


180 


UNION DO WN. 


“What do you mean?” he cried hoarsely. “That man 
was nothing to me ! ” 

“True as the north star!” replied Godbold, in vicious 
enjoyment of the other’s discomfiture. “ He were less than 
nuthin’, to jedge by the way yer furgot him — an’ the woman 
to whom he were wed ! ” 

With a muttered oath Manley drew from his pocket a sec- 
ond cigar and proceeded to light it. The action was a ruse 
to cover a moment’s thought. He realized that the seaman 
was better informed than he had imagined, and he fully 
appreciated the viciousness of the man’s nature. 

He at once decided that defiance was out of the question, 
and that a plan lately formed in mind had been nipped in 
the bud. He felt that cunning must be met with cunning, 
and knavery combated with its own weapons. In the hope 
of discovering the full extent of the seaman’s knowledge, he 
said mildly, as he tossed aside the burning match : 

“ Explain yourself, Mr. Godbold.” 

The seaman deliberately knocked the ashes from his pipe 
and stowed it away in a corner of his pocket. 

“ Mr. Clavering,” said he slowly, in a tone of most sinis- 
ter argument; “in makin’ a friend o’ me, there’s a chance 
to win, an’ yer can’t lose. But to a dead sartinty yer’ll quit 
a loser if yer make me yer foe. Nov/ there’s jest one thing 
I want to know from you, sir — which it’ll be?” 

“ I certainly have no wish to make you my enemy, Mr. 
Godbold,” answered Manley rather humbly. 

“Good!” cried the seaman, extending a hand which the 
other accepted with mingled disgust and chagrin. “ Set 
down here alongside o’ me, Mr. Clavering, an’ we’ll throw 
a lead an’ git our soundin’s. I reckon w 7 e’re now in sech 
shaller water that we can tech bottom.” 

Manley seated himself at the bow of the boat, and for 
nearly half an hour the two men remained in subdued but 


FISHING . 


101 


earnest conversation. At the end of that time they parted, 
each going his way; John Godbold exultant over what had 
seemed his wonderful stroke of fortune, Manley writhing 
helplessly in a net which his own hands had woven around 
him. v 

Scarcely had the two men separated, when a third person 
suddenly arose from behind a low hedge several yards above 
the beach, and out of hearing of the conversation which had 
taken place. 

Alone in. the waning light of the moon, whose silver rim 
was already broken by the dark horizon line upon the dis- 
tant surface of the sea, there where the white beach sands 
met the dark green of the dewy meadows, with faded skirts 
clinging close around her, and her grim features softened as 
if by an unexpected ray of hope, stood Margaret Dawson, 
gazing steadfastly after Manley Clavering, now striding 
rapidly along the beach toward the house on the bluff. 

She watched him till an indenture in the shore shut him 
from her view, when she turned abruptly and strode across 
the fields toward her own dwelling. Had one been near 
enough, one might have heard her mutter bitterly under 
her breath : 

“Two such men together! At last there’s a rift in the 
clouds ! ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


MR. SEDGEWICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

For two days following his chilling immersion in the 
pond, Orlando Sedgewick was obliged to keep his bed, and 
nearly a week elapsed ere it was deemed advisable for him 
to venture out of doors. Perhaps his personal caution 
emanated in a degree from some other sentiment than a fear 
of retarding his convalescence, or so at least Mr. Wiseacre 
was inclined to think. 

He had not failed to observe that his guest, though natu- 
rally reserved, had become peculiarly taciturn and thought- 
ful; and, moreover, Mr. Wiseacre was too keen an observer 
in his old age not to have discerned the subject of Sedge- 
wick’s reflections. 

“Truly,” thought he complacently; “my beloved Naomi 
is unconsciously awakening tender emotions in the breast of 
this, I trust worthy, individual. I might indeed wish it to 
be one of the others, Ruth or Leah, or even young Sabrina; 
for Naomi’s prospects are already particularly brilliant. 
However, who knows but this might prove the better alli- 
ance?” Of course Mr. Wiseacre had in view his daughter’s 
happiness only. 

He was not far out of the way concerning the impression 
which Naomi had unconsciously made upon Mr. Sedgewick. 
That attraction first given birth when he saw her bending in 
mingled grief and compassion over the dripping form of her 
young sister, had become stronger with longer acquaintance, 

162 


MR. SEDGE WICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 


163 


Though naturally sensitive and affectionate, Mr. Sedge- 
wick was not possessed of an easily excited temperament ; 
and, rarely acting from impulse, his best nature did not at 
first appear upon the surface. He had acquired the habit 
of examining well the virtue of his intentions, and oftentimes 
he seemed to act slowly. More than are most men, he was 
deeply considerate of others, and much rather would prefer 
to suffer a wrong than to commit one. To have granted 
pardon were easy ; to feel that he so had erred as to require 
it, were indeed painful. 

The warm rays of the almost vertical sun were streaming 
down about Mr. Wiseacre’s angular dwelling, against which 
Orlando Sedgewick sat tipped back in his chair. He had 
been listening to his corpulent host, who was seated directly 
in front of him, and who had been relating with characteris- 
tic embellishments the story of Randolph Clavering, and 
expatiating on the strange misfortunes which, like mysteri- 
ous fatalities, had fastened themselves on each proprietor of 
the house on the bluff. 

The story being done, Mr. Wiseacre had locked his fin- 
gers over his rotund trunk, and, gazing expectantly at Sedge- 
wick’s grave face, had relapsed to silence. 

“That is indeed a strange story,” at length said the latter, 
his deliberate utterance revealing his interest. “The pitiful 
death of the man, Kimball Allen, seems very inconsistent 
with the character and circumstances which you have 
described. Pray, Mr. Wiseacre, was there no investigation 
made ? ” 

Mr. Wiseacre looked rather astonished. 

“Investigation!” he rejoined, much as if he wondered at 
the other’s seeming failure to fully take in his late disclos- 
ures. “ Most assuredly, my dear Sedgewick, there was an 
investigation. Did I not journey all the way to New York 
for the very purpose of investigating the case? Did I not 


164 


UNION DOWN 


expend a material quantity of my vitality in a vain though 
desperate endeavor to locate Kimball Allen’s wife ? It was 
at my individual suggestion, my dear Sedgewick, that an 
examination was made of the body ; for I fully realized that 
there might exist in those chilled organs the incontrovertible 
evidences of foul play. But such were not apparent, my 
dear Sedgewick. The man had merely starved. Investiga- 
tion ? most assuredly there was ! and quite as extensive an 
investigation as I deemed to be compatible with the fact 
that I could claim no relationship to the deceased — except, 
indeed, that universal relationship, the brotherhood of man 
to man. Can you imagine that I would presume to have 
done more than I did?” 

“No, not at all,” slowly answered Mr. Sedgewick. “I 
did not intend to convey any such idea. I am quite certain, 
Mr. Wiseacre, that you are the sort of man to have devoted 
your best judgment and energy to the undertaking. But, 
frankly, I hardly can see how Mr. Randolph Clavering 
could have found it easy to let the matter drop so lightly.” 

Though the opinion was gravely expressed, there was lit- 
tle in words or tone to have suggested more than an ordi- 
nary appreciation of the case ; yet if Mr. Wiseacre had been 
better acquainted with the speaker, he must have observed 
in the eyes bent on his with such penetrating scrutiny, that 
the interest betrayed was of more than a cursory nature. 

“ Lightly ! ” softly exclaimed Mr. Wiseacre, with the 
gentlest show of surprise. “How lightly, my dear Sedge- 
wick? Mr. Clavering was as much a stranger to the 
deceased as was I.” 

“True, now that you remark it.” 

“Why, then, should he have interested himself to a 
greater degree? Yet, in truth, sir, he did so; for he volun- 
tarily assumed all the expense of our labors, besides the 
burial fees — which was yer y q| him, I am sure.” 


MR. SEDGEWICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 


165 


Mr. Sedgewick smiled rather wearily. 

“The strangeness of the case,” said he; “together with 
-the terrible death of the unfortunate man, may have made 
me hypercritical. It was very sad, indeed. Is this Mr. 
Clavering an elderly gentleman?” 

The question sent Mr. Wiseacre into a long and glowing 
eulogy of his esteemed friend, and once only — when he rose 
above exaggeration even — did the face of Sedgewick betray 
his thoughts. Then his lip curled in momentary derision, 
and in the depths of his somber eyes a light burned 
like that of subdued disdain. But he bent forward, 
with this passing expression, and plucked a blacje of grass 
from the lawn, saying calmly, when the other finished : 

“ From your description, Mr. Wiseacre, a very exemplary 
man.” Then, as if weary of the subject, he abruptly changed 
it by adding : “The weather has become quite warm dur- 
ing my week of confinement. I have, while sitting here, 
been thinking that I no longer am justified in imposing upon 
your hospitality. I feel that I now am quite able to return 
to my quarters at the hotel.” 

“ One word, my dear Sedgewick,” quickly cried Mr. Wise- 
acre; and he leaned forward in his chair to place both his 
fat hands on the other’s knees and gaze with ludicrous anxi- 
ety into his face. “Just one word, if you will allow me. 
May I be permitted to ask if your stay beneath my humble 
roof has been made as agreeable as would appear consistent 
with your physical condition ? Have the limited accommo- 
dations which I am able to place at your disposal, the sim- 
ple but at least wholesome fare which I am able to offer 
you — have these, may I ask, been such as to merit your 
approval ? ” 

“Indeed, yes, Mr. Wiseacre,” warmly answered Sedge- 
wick, laughing despite himself at the concern portrayed in 
the moon-like countenance opposite. "You and all ypur 


166 


UNION DOWN 


family have been very kind to me, and nothing has been 
left undone which could contribute to my welfare and 
enjoyment. I shall always recall the past week as one of 
the green spots in my somewhat arid life.” 

“Then,” cried Mr. Wiseacre, with an abrupt burst of 
affection; “ don’t confine the greenness to a spot, my dear 
Sedgewick ! Make it an acre — a farm — a whole prairie ! ” 

“But, Mr. Wiseacre, I*” — 

“No buts, my dear Sedgewick; but me no buts, if you 
please. I know what a dog’s abode the hotel of this place 
has grown to be. Jf you contemplate remaining in town, 
please let me persuade you to remain right where you are. 
If you now desert me, when I best can administer to your 
pleasures, I shall feel to have been remiss of duty and 
attentiveness. This would be to me a source of utmost 
grief — utmost, my dear Sedgewick! For I am sensitive — • 
very, my dear Sedgewick! You can have no idea! ” 

Ordinarily Mr. Sedgewick would have laughed at such an 
effusion, but he could not now find it in his heart to do so; 
for tears were glistening in Mr. Wiseacre’s little eyes, and 
his solicitude was too obviously painful to be thought 
ludicrous. 

“I must say, Mr. Wiseacre, that while I fully appreciate 
your kind intentions, I do not 'see how I can conscien- 
tiously avail myself of your generosity. We are com- 
parative strangers. I may remain in town for some 
considerable time ; possibly through the summer. I could 
not feel at ease, and certainly would not be acting fairly, 
were I to accept your hospitality without some recompense.” 

“Recompense ! ” cried Mr. Wiseacre, shaking tremulously 
under his emotions. “My dear Sedgewick, think of that 
sweet and tender bud — my zero! But for your prompt 
bravery, the bud would now be blossoming in heaven. 
How can you speak of recompense? It is I who bow 


MR. SEDGE WICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 


167 


beneath a debt beyond my sustaining. My dear Sedgewick, 
pardon my weakness!” 

And Mr. Wiseacre yielded completely to his swelling 
gratitude, and allowed his tears to flow without restraint. 

“Tut, tut,” remonstrated Sedgewick, a little embar- 
rassed. “ There is no obligation between us.” 

“ Yes — there — is ! ” sobbed Mr. Wiseacre, utterly over- 
come. 

“Why, sir, any man would have done the little I did.” 

“That makes — no difference! You saved — my zero’s 
life ! ” 

The supply of this worthy father’s tears was really mar- 
velous. It was as if the sudden drawing of spigots had 
rendered his two little tunnel-holes the vents to some huge 
tank of tears, located somewhere within his great bald 
head. 

“ Come, come,” at length said Sedgewick;- “let us, then, 
admit that there is -an obligation — a trivial one!” For 
there really seemed nothing else to be done. 

“An obligation — but not a trivial one!” remonstrated 
Mr. Wiseacre, brightening. 

“Well, and what of it?” laughed Sedgewick, heartily. 
“ Few men get through life without incurring obligations of 
one kind or another.” 

“One word! One word more, if you please,” cried Mr. 
Wiseacre, laying both hands on those of iiis guest. “ Per- 
mit me to ask you just one question, and I beg that you 
will respond with the same frankness in which I ask it. I 
want you, while you are in town, to be so situated that you 
may derive the greatest possible enjoyment. Consulting 
for the present, my dear Sedgewick, your own inclinations 
only, and regardless of obligations one way or the other, do 
you prefer to return to your hotel, or to remain where you 
are, beneath my humble but ever welcome roof?” 


168 


UNION DOWN. 


Orlando Sedgewick hesitated. 

“Father, dear, dinner is served. How very entertaining 
your chat must have been, Mr. Sedgewick, to have so long 
kept both of you out here in the sun.” 

The gentlemen turned toward the speaker and saw Naomi, 
with blushing face, peeping around a corner of the house. 
The blush deepened, and the face vanished, under the smile 
of pleasure which instantly lighted the countenance of the 
younger man. 

“She has missed me!” thought he, with a thrill, and 
unconsciously making his wish the father of his thought. 
Then, with a faint color breaking the habitual paleness of 
his face, he turned to Mr. Wiseacre and said gravely : “ I 
will answer your question with the frankness you desire — 
I would remain where I am.” 

“ Good ! ” cried Mr. Wiseacre, now beaming like nature 
after a summer shower. “I am delighted, my dear Sedge- 
wick. Say no more, then, of going. Make your home with 
me for the present — the longer the better. When you are 
obliged to depart, we will again consider the recompense. 
Come, my esteemed and worthy friend, let us repair to the 
festive board — so to speak.” 

He struggled to his feet, and, taking the arm of his com- 
panion, led him toward the front of the house. There was now 
a smile of satisfaction on his roseate visage, and his bright 
little eyes glittered with secret exultation ; but Orlando 
Sedgewick was himself too well pleased by the turn of affairs 
to observe either the one or the other. 

As they rounded the corner of the house, a third person 
appeared unexpectedly upon their view. Standing doubt- 
fully on the irregular stone steps, her hand lifted as if to 
rap on the door, was the very tall, very thin, and very yel- 
low figure of Mrs. John Godbold. Surprised and confused 
by their approach, she descended a step or two and turned 


Mk. SEDGE WICK MAKES A' DISCO VER Y. 169 

toward them, while a brilliant red mingled with the yellow 
of her countenance, and made a complementary color of 
quite indescribable oddness. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Wiseacre,” she ventured timidly. 
“ I fear I have called just at dinner-time. It seems always 
to happen so with me. I had half decided not to knock.” 

“Not a word, my dear Mrs. Godbold ; not a word in the 
way of apology,” cried Mr. Wiseacre, advancing with pon- 
derous gallantry to take her hand. “ We are just about to 
gratify the cravings of the inner man. Will you not join 
us?” 

They stood directly in the way of Sedgewick’s entrance, 
and he drew back a little, with a lively interest awakened 
by the mention of her name. Mr. Wflseacre observed his 
position, and at once introduced him to the lady. She imme- 
diately underwent another and even more pronounced 
change of color, and expressed in some confusion her pleas- 
ure in meeting “the brave gentleman who saved Mr. Wise- 
acre’s child from a watery grave ” — the reference to which 
brought an instantaneous response from that sensitive 
father’s bosom. 

“ Let me persuade you to come in, ” said he, repeating 
his invitation when his momentary emotion had waned. 
“There is always room for one more.” 

“No, no! I thank you, no!” protested Mrs. Godbold, 
confusedly. “I really cannot stop. I called only to see 
your wife for a moment, but you will do quite as well. 
John was off on the flats this morning — John’s my hus- 
band, sir,” with a bow' to Sedgewick; “and he brought 
home a bushel of clams — very nice ones, Mr. Wiseacre. 
There are more than we possibly can eat, and I thought 
that perhaps some of your folks would like a few. John 
said I might give away what we do not want.” 

“Clams! clams!” voiced Mr. Wiseacre, in tones of 


no 


UNION- DOWN. 


ecstatic anticipation. “My dear Mrs. Godbold, some 
happy inspiration must have influenced you to think of me. 
I am particularly fond of that bivalvular mollusk. You are 
very kind, very; and so is John, my old friend John! I 
will accept with gratitude what you can spare, Mrs. 
Godbold. Shall I commission Marcus Junius to transport 
them hither ? ” 

“ If you will be so good, Mr. Wiseacre. They were rather 
heavy for me to have brought, and John was not at home. 
You are very welcome to them, I am sure.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Godbold ; thank you again. Also 
convey my profound appreciation to friend John, who I 
understand has permanently retired from the blue and 
briny.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Godbold with a smile, which struck 
Mr. Wiseacre as being entirely out of place in the face of 
such an observation. “ He says he will go to sea no more. 
I believe he had some kind of a dispute with the captain of 
the Bounding Wave, his ship for several years as you may 
remember. At any rate, there was some little trouble along 
toward the last.” 

“ Quite likely,” answered Mr. Wiseacre, with just the 
least dryness. “ Some captains are very hard masters.” 

“ So they are, indeed,” chirped Mrs. Godbold, who, hav- 
ing regained her composure, seemed in remarkable spirit. 
“ But I will admit that John himself is not over-considerate 
of others. Yet he has been wonderfully good since his 
return. I am quite delighted, I assure you, Mr. Wiseacre, 
who may remember some of his characteristics.” 

“ I do, indeed, Mrs. Goldbold, and I am very glad to 
hear of the change. I always did say that John was not a 
bad man at heart.” 

“Well, he has done nicely for a week back, and when he 
has a mind to John can be a very handy man about the 


MR. SEDGE WICK MAKES A DISCO VER Y. 171 

house. But I am detaining you too long. I will bid you 
good-morning.” 

“ One moment, Mrs. Godbold,” interposed Mr. Wiseacre. 
“John would not take offense were I to tender some slight 
recompense for his labors? Let me pay you for the clams.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no,” was the hurried reply. “ Not a penny. 
You are very welcome. I understand your motive, Mr. 
Wiseacre, and under some past circumstances the pay 
would have been very acceptable ; but John was very sav- 
ing during his last voyage, and appears to have plenty of 
money. Many thanks, just the same, Mr. Wiseacre. Send 
Marcus Junius for the clams. Good-morning — and good- 
morning to you, Mr. Sedgewick.” 

And with a stiff little bow and in renewed confusion, this 
tall yellow lady took her departure, and moved jerkily 
away. 

Sedgewick raised his hat and stood for a momerlt to gaze 
after her ; then, with a strange smile breaking briefly the 
somber gravity of his face, he entered the house and joined 
the Wiseacre family at dinner. - . 

At sunset he walked alone to the summit of the great hill 
back of Mr. Wiseacre’s dwelling, and for a long time gazed 
gloomily toward the golden west, against which rose the 
dark, pointed gables of the house on the bluff. When he 
retraced his steps, the frown upon his brow had deepened 
and his lips were sternly drawn. 

“ So John Godbold has sailed for years past in the 
Bounding Wave,” mused he, as he walked. “Then certainly 
Ben Brandon took passage in that vessel when he left Hong 
Kong. And John Godbold has an abundance of money 
just now. That would seem strange, considering that so 
lately he had only what Nancy Brandon gave him. I believe 
I can imagine where he obtained his recent supply. The 
mud is becoming stirred ! I think the time has come when 


172 


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I should let him rest, and cultivate instead the acquaintance 
of Mr. Manley Clavering ! ” 

The frown had grown deeper yet, and his lips were 
compressed to severity. Thus ominously thoughtful he 
returned to the house, and later in the evening wrote the 
following letter to Nancy Brandon. 

“ Dear Madam : — 

I have located the seaman from whom you recovered 
your ring, but owing to illness I have as yet been unable to 
see him. I find that other matters will claim my attention 
for a brief time, but your commission shall in due season 
be resumed. Continue to maintain the position upon 
which we agreed, and await patiently my future action. 
Be assured that I have your interests and welfare close at 
heart. Very faithfully, 

Orlando Sedgewick.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MR. SEDGEWICK RECEIVES A WARNING. 

Why Mr. Sedgewick resolved to cultivate the acquaint- 
ance of Manley Clavering, instead of immediately devoting 
himself to Nancy Brandon’s interests, is not particularly 
plain ; but the opportunity of making that acquaintance was 
fairly thrust upon him the very next morning. Still evinc- 
ing those ominous reflections which took such marked pos- 
session of him the previous day, he was seated alone on the 
lawn in front of the house, when Naomi came out to hand 
him a short note and to say blushingly : 

“ I have just received this, Mr. Sedgewick, and the bearer 
is waiting a reply. What answer shall I make ? ” 

He had not heard her step on the soft greensward, and 
the sound of her voice so near startled him. Yet it was a 
voice which had become like music in his ears. He had 
had but few opportunities of speaking with her alone, and 
he now arose impulsively, with a flush almost like that of 
guilt mantling his pale cheeks and driving from his face the 
gloomy frown which had clouded it. 

“I am to read it?” he asked inquiringly, with an expres- 
sion of pleasure which he made no effort to conceal. 

“If you will be so kind,” said Naomi, demurely, while 
with drooping eyes and a deepened blush she drew back 

173 


1*74 


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from his fond gaze. “ How else are you to advise me of 
my reply ? ” 

“ True,” softly answered Sedgewick; and, perceiving the 
gentle agitation which she was fain to conceal, he laughed 
genially and drew her thoughts away from herself to him. 
“ What an obtuse creature I am getting to be. I believe I 
am growing more so day by day. Don’t you think I am 
exceptionally stupid ? ” 

His laugh was so unaffected that she could not but join 
in it. He had a wonderful faculty of influencing those with 
whom he was in contact. Back of those strangely earnest 
eyes of his, there seemed to be a power capable of swaying 
at will the sentiments and sympathies of others. 

“Perhaps I should not have said advise me,” said Naomi, 
avoiding his question. “ It is merely an invitation to tea.” 

“Ah,” was the smilingly regretful rejoinder; “then I do 
not see that I am to have the happiness of being of service 
to you after all.” 

“Only by reading it — which I see no indication of your 
doing. Come, Mr. Sedgewick, don’t try to make me think 
you a tease, for I know that you are not. Moreover, the 
bearer is waiting for an answer.” 

“ Sorry for the bearer, I am sure,” laughed Sedgewick. 
“ In the pleasure of the moment I had quite forgotten 
him.” 

And now he opened the missive and began to read. 

Again Naomi drew back and turned partly aside, biting 
her lip, as if to quell thereby the swift pang which those last 
words of his, together with his look, had sent to her heart. 
If the heart was revealed in her face, now grown so pale 
since his eyes were diverted, it was the seat of suffering 
indeed; for the face of the woman appeared, during one 
brief moment, like the face of one who struggles on the very 
verge of uttermost despair. 


MR. SEDGE WICK RECEIVES A WARNING. 


175 


But Orlando Sedgewick observed none of this, for his gaze 
was bent upon the note, which read as follows : 

“My Darling Naomi: — 

Come over this afternoon and join Manley and myself in 
a sail down the bay, and afterward remain to tea. Manley 
suggests that your friend Mr. Sedgewick may find the trip 
enjoyable, provided he is so far recovered as to consider it 
judicious, and will accept the invitation through yourself. 
We shall be pleased to make his acquaintance, and I leave 
the rest to you. Answer by the bearer, dear — and in the 
affirmative. Your loving 

Clara.” 

It was well — or ill, as the sequel may show — that 
Naomi’s own feelings absorbed her attention; that her eyes 
were turned upon the broad sweep of meadows, bathed in 
the morning sunshine ; that she did not observe the varying 
countenance of the reader, as he twice fairly devoured the 
contents of Clara Clavering’s note. 

Had she seen, her very soul would have recoiled in min- 
gled amazement and alarm, her very heart have cried out 
to her beloved friend the terrified answer — 

“No, no! I will not come! As I value your friend- 
ship — your love — as I would spare your peace and happi- 
ness, I will not come ! I will not bring this man into the 
circle of your life and the lives of those you love ! Whatever 
his wish, I will not come ! ” 

For the smile which, at Naomi’s approach, had softened 
the ominous gravity of Orlando Sedgewick’s face, faded 
slowly away while he read, till his features seemed to have 
frozen in an icy expression of vengeful bitterness. The 
vanished flush of pleasure had left his cheeks like marble 
in their whiteness. His compressed lips had turned from 
red to gray. In his lowered eyes the gentle light of love 


176 


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had been consumed by the aroused fire of a merciless pas- 
sion, long held in check by force of will alone. 

Twice he read the kind message, then folded the sheet 
and returned it to Naomi. She looked up at him, and saw 
only a pale, grave face — now gentle even in its gravity — a 
face which had lately haunted her dreams, and the strange 
and somber earnestness of which had been fain to fill her 
with vague and indescribable apprehension. 

Sedgewick ruled with an iron will the passions which had 
briefly moved him, and was sovereign over self. In his 
grave smile and gentle voice, when he replied, there was 
only that impressive calmness which at times is harbinger 
of a most terrific storm. 

“Very kind and thoughtful, I am sure,” said he. “I 
shall enjoy meeting these people who are so considerate of 
a stranger. However, Miss Naomi, do not let me influence 
you. If you will court your pleasure only, I shall thereby 
derive the greatest enjoyment.” 

“I would be selfish to decline the invitation, now that 
you have expressed your wish,” smiled Naomi, modestly. 
“I will answer as my friend desires — in the affirmative.” 

“Which friend?” eagerly sprang to Sedgewick’s lips; 
but, before the words could be spoken, Naomi had turned 
and was moving hurriedly away across the lawn. 

“God bless her! God make her indeed my friend in 
these hours of my trial and temptation ! ” he muttered 
passionately under his breath. “ May the spirit of charity 
be ever within me, that in rendering justice I may not fall 
to vengeance and fail of mercy. Oh, God ! Thou knowest 
I need a supporter ! Breathe into her that spirit of love 
which at this moment strengthens and softens my heart, 
and give back to me, in her, that of which Thou hast seen 
fit for a time to deprive me ! Oh, Naomi, Naomi !” 

Something very like a sob choked him. He brushed 


MR. SEDGEWICK RECEIVES A WARNING . 


177 


away a tear which trembled on his lashes, and, turning 
abruptly, strode rapidly across the green fields and meadows, 
eager to be alone, eager to yield unrestrainedly to emotions 
whose sorrowful occasion has yet to be disclosed. 

He did not heed whither his steps were taking him. 
Aimlessly he moved, with head bent and eyes fixed on the 
ground ; until -at length, looking up, he found himself near 
a remote corner of the country churchyard. He recoiled in 
some surprise, then cleared the fence at a bound and gazed 
curiously about. 

His paleness became more marked, and a faint shudder 
shook his powerful figure, at something which caught his 
eye. He advanced a few paces, to stand with head bowed 
and his sorrowful eyes fixed on a low mound of earth at his 
feet. 

“ Has fate led me hither ? ” he muttered, in a tone almost 
of awe. “ So here he lies ! Does fate so vividly bring me 
back to my purpose?” 

Beneath the grass-grown mound in that isolated corner of 
the country churchyard, lay the crumbled remains of the 
man who years before had reared the house on the bluff, 
who years before had died in pitiable solitude and neglect 
in a low New York lodging-house. On the simple moss- 
grown slab which marked the long-pillowed head, Orlando 
Sedgewick had read the name — Kimball Allen. 

For some time he stood bowed in thought, when, start- 
ing to move away, he saw what before had escaped his 
notice. Half hidden in the tall grass of the lonely grave, 
yet as if placed thereupon by a loving and reverential hand, 
lay a wild rose, so lately plucked that not a petal had 
withered. 

The gravity of the observer’s face gave place to an 
expression of strange amazement. 

M What — after all these years ! ” he gasped faintly. 


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“ No, no ; it cannot be ! I am wrong. The flower has been 
dropped by some passer-by.” 

Then he turned abruptly away and retraced his steps, 
leaving the' blossom untouched. 

True, he was wrong. The flower had indeed been placed 
there. Another form than his had stood by the grave that 
day. Another heart had bled above it; other eyes had 
looked upon it — eyes from which scalding tears, unchilled 
by time, had fallen ; a heart from which a mingled prayer 
and curse arose ! 

The sun had passed the meridian by two hours, when 
Mr. Sedgewick and Naomi turned from the sandy highway 
and entered the long lane, shadowed by the over-arching 
branches of a double row of elms, which led toward the 
house on the bluff. 

Simply dressed in a sailor costume of dark-blue flannel, 
within the broad collar of which her superb white neck was 
modestly revealed, Naomi had never looked more attractive. 
The loose blouse and heavy folds of her skirt were grace- 
fully draped, and hung as such can hang only on a perfect, 
fairly classical figure, as was hers. 

“You seem thoughtful, Miss Naomi,” remarked Sedge- 
wick, who for some time had been silently admiring her 
modest freedom and grace of motion, as she walked by his 
side. “I hope my expressing a desire to accept Miss 
Clavering’s invitation, has not led you into acting against 
your own wishes.” 

There was a wealth of tender solicitude in his voice, 
and he turned slightly to meet the eyes she raised to his. 
Somehow they seemed to appeal to him with an almost 
piteous expression, like that of timid entreaty ; but it van- 
ished almost instantly, when she blushingly replied : 

“Not in the least, Mr. Sedgewick. I am very glad of 
the occasion, for it is several days since I have seen my 


MR. SEDGE WICK RECEIVES A WARNING. 


179 


friends here. Indeed I would be very ungrateful to you, 
if I did not wish to do all in my poor power to contribute 
to your enjoyment. I cannot forget that to your” — 

“Please, Miss Naomi, spare reference to any act of 
mine,” he gently interposed. “I beg that nothing past 
may affect your consideration of me, or influence you in my 
behalf. Believe me, my pleasure would cease to be such, 
were I to discover that it came in collision with your wishes 
and enjoyment.” 

He spoke more warmly than he imagined. He was 
habitually so grave and reserved, that such an exhibition of 
feeling on his part seemed doubly noticeable. The color 
fled like a flash from Naomi’s cheeks, only to return with 
augmented depth when she replied rather tremulously : 

“You speak very kindly. I hope there is no danger of 
a collision — do you anticipate any?” 

The question came like a swift breath, and was asked 
almost before she realized it. Sedgewick had been walking 
with his eyes fixed on the tips of her tan-colored ties, com- 
ing and going below the folds of her dark skirt; but now 
he started slightly, and looked directly at her face. He 
thought he divined the cause of the vague apprehension he 
read there, and laughed softly. 

“Oh, no,” said he; “I anticipate no collision. Since 
we have drawn such a simile, I will sustain it. I travel 
^very slowly, not under much pressure of steam, you know. 
A collision at my rate of speed could hardly be a serious 
one, would scarcely result in a fatality, I think.” 

He regarded her with a smile, but the grave earnest- 
ness of her pale face did not vary. 

“ Simple causes are sometimes productive of sad and 
serious effects, Mr. Sedgewick,” said she ; then, as if she 
had gone to the limit of the occasion, she abruptly turned 
the' subject. “ I fear, if I attempt to talk in figurative 


180 


UNION- DOWN. 


language, that I shall get beyond my depth. See ! yonder 
is Mr. Clavering’s residence.” 

And she pointed to where, through the trees, the fine old 
structure came suddenly into view. 

Orlando Sedgewick took the hint, which' was plain in 
both tone and words. He experienced a new and painful 
sensation, and a chill fell upon his heart. For he thought 
he heard the indubitable ring of a tocsin bell, the sound- 
ing of an alarm ; and something within him cried out that 
she had anticipated the future, and had modestly striven to 
give him warning. But the warning had come too late, and 
nothing stirs love to action like the fear of losing love. 

Yet no change, save perhaps an added paleness, 
betrayed his feelings. He looked in the direction she 
indicated, when, as if the sight of Randolph Clavering’s 
dwelling served to rouse him from a dream to a reality, his 
entire aspect changed. His features took on again that 
cold, bitter expression of the early morning, and again that 
vengeful fire lighted for an instant his somber eyes. 

Then, as if will would have risen paramount to passion, 
the hands by his sides were suddenly clenched, and he 
remarked with enforced cheerfulness: 

“It is too stately an edifice to be so removed and 
isolated. Behold, we are already expected, for a young 
lady is watching from the veranda. I imagine that she is 
Miss Clara Clavering, and that the old gentleman by whose 
side she is standing is her foster-father, Mr. Randolph 
Clavering. Am I right?” 

Though the man spoke lightly, the face of the speaker 
was like marble. 

Naomi was responding to a wave of the hand from Clara, 
so did not observe ; yet she answered : 

“Yes, Mr. Sedgewick; perfectly so.” 

And they moved up the broad gravel driveway together. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


CURRENTS TURNED AWRY. 

Clara Clavering left her father and ran lightly down 
the veranda steps to meet her guests, greeting Naomi with 
characteristic womanly affection. The introduction to Mr. 
Sedgewick was quickly made and acknowledged. 

“ I am very glad, Mr. Sedgewick, that you were able to 
come,” said Clara, with frank cordiality; “and Manley will 
be delighted to make your acquaintance. In this locality 
gentlemen of leisure are few and far between, and I rather 
fear that time now and then drags heavily. He will be 
glad of the companionship of one who may perhaps suffer 
like ennui, and the result may prove mutually pleasurable.” 

“On the theory that misery likes company?” questioned 
Sedgewick, with an odd little smile. 

Clara laughed and blushed. 

“Well, I did not mean precisely that,” said she, just the 
least bit awed by her visitor’s rather reserved bearing 
and strange paleness, yet nevertheless pleased by his quiet 
humor. “ I am inclined to think you know what I meant, 
for certainly the country here is rather quiet for gentlemen 
of leisure.” 

“ I think it is a very charming country, Miss Clavering, 
and I have yet to want for amusement. I shall be very glad, 
however, to add to Mr. Clavering’s enjoyment in any way 
that may come within my power; and I assure you I appre- 
ciate your hospitality of to-day. Strangers, you know, find 

181 


182 


UNION DOWN 


amusement in many ways of which older residents have lost 
sight.” 

“ I imagine so, Mr. Sedgewick ; but the newness of 
things soon wears off. You are quite recovered from your 
illness ? ” 

“Yes, thanks to the gentle hands into which I fell,” 
replied he, with a glance at Naomi, who had moved on in 
advance. “ I am not generally so susceptible, and am quite 
surprised that I was ill from so slight a cause.” 

“ I would hardly regard it so lightly. I assure you I 
shall feel unusually safe aboard the yacht'to-day, having for 
a companion one so prompt and heroic of action.” 

And Clara flashed an arch look at the grave countenance 
of the unconsciously imposing man ascending tfce steps by 
her side. 

“I judge from experience,” replied Sedgewick; “that 
but little courage is hereabouts required to create a hero. 
I continually find myself forced to pose in an unworthy 
character. I fear, Miss Clavering, you would find me of 
very little assistance in event of disaster.” 

“What! do you say that? Surely, sir, you would not 
deliberately swim away and suffer a lady to perish 
unaided ! ” 

“Not deliberately,” laughed Sedgewick; “for I cannot 
swim a stroke.” 

“ Indeed ! ” cried Clara, in gleeful exultation. “ Now 
you have said it, and certainly proved that you were heroic. 
Nay, you cannot deny it longer. Let me introduce you to 
my father, Mr. Clavering, Mr. Sedgewick.” 

Randolph Clavering arose from his great willow chair 
and extended his thin, tremulous hand to the stranger, who 
now stood with uncovered head before him. 

“You are very welcome at the house on the bluff,” said 
he, with that habitual gentleness and courtesy which ren- 


CURRENTS TURNED AWRY. 


183 


dered him so winning; then he started slightly and his gaze 
at Sedgewick became more earnest, for the hand which had 
taken his and returned his gentle pressure was as cold as a 
hand of ice. “ Pray be seated, Mr. Sedgewick. You are 
very pale. Are you ill ? ” 

Orlando Sedgewick dropped heavily into a chair that 
stood near. For a moment he did not speak. His voice 
seemed beyond his control. He stared like one dumb- 
founded and overcome at the broken ’old gentleman who 
now seemed so solicitious of his condition. 

“No, no, Mr. Clavering, ” he at length found voice to 
answer; and, as if suddenly recalled to his position, he 
wilfully overcame his sensations. “ I am not ill — not now r . 
I have been rather under the weather during the past week, 
and very likely the exertion of the walk has told upon me. 
I felt a little faint for a moment.” 

“A glass of wine, Clara,” whispered Mr. Clavering to his 
daughter at his side. 

“No, no ; I beg that you will not disturb yourselves,” pro- 
tested Sedgewick, who had overheard; and his firmer tone 
and brightened face at once dispelled their apprehensions. 
“You are very kind, indeed, and I thank you; but I am 
quite myself again. You have a fine place here, Mr. 
Clavering.” 

“ Yes, so nearly all say who visit me,” rejoined that 
gentleman, resuming his seat. “ I like it. It is quiet and 
pleasant — just the sort of a place for an old man like 
myself. 

“For any man, sir, who delights in viewing nature in 
many of her most beautiful aspects,” replied Sedgewick, 
warmly. “ What a charming view is presented of the bay.” 

“Charming, indeed,” bowed Mr. Clavering, evidently 
much pleased by the other’s open appreciation ; then, catch- 
ing Naomi’s eye, who with arm encircling her friend - was 


184 


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walking near by, he cried with quite an unusual display of 
raillery: “By the way, Naomi, you are becoming very 
much of a stranger. I miss a sunshine once freely and 
graciously bestowed. I fear that I must send Manley 
Clavering away from here for a time. Pray, does the pres- 
ence of that indolent young man serve to estrange you from 
the house on the bluff? ” 

Naomi turned very red, and cast a furtive glance in the 
direction of Sedgewick ; but the latter’s eyes, though he had 
heard, and with a vague heart-pang, had not for a moment 
diverted from the wan but strangely winning face of the 
speaker. 

“I do not think. so,” answered Naomi, with a laugh which 
sounded somewhat constrained. “ I am almost at the head 
of a very large family, you must remember, and I have 
household duties which claim much of my time and atten- 
tion.” 

“Ah, Naomi, Naomi! how they must have increased dur- 
ing the past few weeks.” And Randolph Clavering shook 
his gray head in smiling disapproval. 

Naomi did not answer. Two young ladies who have been 
separated for a week, seem somehow to accumulate a fund 
of confidential matter which is truly surprising, and with 
arms interlocked these two resumed their walk of the ver- 
anda, which quite surrounded the house itself. As they 
turned the near corner and disappeared from view, Mr. 
Clavering reverted to Sedgewick. 

“ A very beautiful girl,” said he, with raised brows. “ One 
of the most gifted naturally that I ever knew.”-' 

“ I quite agree with you, sir,” was the grave reply. 

“ By the way, you are feeling quite yourself again ?” 

“ I think so, thank you. It was but a passing weak- 
ness.” 

“Yet your late adventure came near being of serious 


CURRENTS TURNED AWRY. 


185 


effect. Let me congratulate you that it has turned out 
otherwise. It was a very praiseworthy act, Mr. Sedgewick.” 

“Rather an act of duty, Mr. Clavering,” drily answered 
Sedgewick, with an odd light showing briefly in his stead- 
fast eyes. 

“Some would call it so,” smiled the. other. “Modest 
persons. Duty oftentimes is a harsh adviser, Mr. Sedge- 
wick, and one not very rigidly followed.” 

“True — more is the pity,” was the grave rejoinder. 
“ Many fail to discern where duty begins.” 

“Do you think it of easy discernment?” 

“ It very often begins with the subordination of personal 
welfare to that of others,” said Sedgewick, with unvarying 
scrutiny of the other’s face. “Pleasure and selfishness 
cease where duty begins — that is why many find duty a 
harsh adviser.” 

Mr. Clavering laughed rather nervously. 

“Yet many find pleasure in following the path of duty,” 
he ventured slowly. 

“In a degree, yes; but their pleasure is of a mediate 
character. That which is derived from obeying the dictates 
of conscience, is a secondary pleasure. The setting aside 
of personal interests to what a high moral judgment 
decrees to be right, is not in itself pleasurable, although 
this secondary pleasure may be derived from obeying these 
lofty impulses.” 

“You are quite a philosopher, sir,” said Mr Clavering, 
who was fingering rather uncomfortably the arms of his 
chair. “You interest me. Come over some morning after 
breakfast and we will discuss the subject. We have hardly 
time just now to do it justice.” 

Sedgewick smiled oddly. 

“Thank you,”, said he. “I will certainly endeavor to 
avail myself of your invitation.” 


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“ Do so, and the sooner the better. I have considerable 
time on my hands, and I enjoy talking on such themes.” 

There was a shadowy expression of satisfaction on 
Orlando Sedgewick’s pale, grave face. For several min- 
utes he gazed silently at the gray-haired, aristocratic old gen- 
tleman opposite. There seemed to be in that delicate face, 
on which the lines of suffering were so vividly impressed, 
something which affected him strangely. Several times, 
while speaking, his voice had broken tremulously, and even 
in this present silence his lip quivered, and a touch of 
moisture showed in his darkly earnest eyes. 

“ Manley informs me that you are going out in the yacht,” 
at length said Mr. Clavering. “It is a fine day for a sail.” 

“So it is,” replied Sedgewick, starting abruptly from his 
self-absorption. “Manley is your son, sir?” 

The speaker’s voice sounded strangely dry and hollow 
in his own ears. There was a vivid contrast between it and 
that of Randolph Clavering, whose gently modulated tone 
echoed with the love this reference reawakened. 

“ Yes,” he said slowly; “he is my son. A fine, noble 
boy, Mr. Sedgewick. I am sure that you will like him. 
But pardon my speaking so warmly of my own. There is 
some excuse for it, I assure you. You may not know of 
my past misfortunes, and that in speaking of my boy I 
speak of one whom I have scarce begun to realize as my 
own. He was lost to me for many, many years. Perhaps,” 
and here he gazed piteously at the face of his hearer, but 
his eyes were dim with tears and he failed to note the 
ghastly paleness of the other’s rigid countenance ; “perhaps 
your friends have told you somewhat of my unhappy story ? ” 

“Yes,” said Sedgewick, huskily. “Let me offer my 
sympathy.” 

“Thank you — thank you,” cried Mr. Clavering, with an 
effort to control his emotions. “ You are very kind. The 


CURRENTS TURNED A WRY. 


187 


tale is too well known for me to endeavor to conceal it. 
Yes, Mr. Sedgewick, he is my son, my only child. I can- 
not tell you — words could not tell it — what portion of my 
heart and life that boy fills to-day ! ” 

Orlando Sedgewick’s hat fell from his hand and rolled 
back of the speaker’s chair. The dropping of it was inten- 
tional. He arose to regain it and passed from the -other’s 
sight. His face was death-like in its paleness. He stood 
for a moment behind this humble and broken old gentle- 
man, his powerful figure shaken under the intensity of sub- 
dued emotions, his hand clutching in a vice-like grip the 
clothing at his neck, as if by physical strength he would 
choke down a cry which, despite superhuman will, seemed 
about to force itself to his bloodless lips. 

The sound of Clara’s voice, as with Naomi she returned 
to that part of the veranda, had immediate effect upon him. 
He ground his teeth together and resumed his seat, without 
having given utterance to a word. 

“ Father,” said Clara, as she approached; “do you know 
where Manley has gone ?” 

“ I do not,” was the reply, with that thoughtful uncer- 
tainty which marked 'the breaking mind. “Is he not in the 
house ? ” 

“ I do not find him. Wherever he may be, I think it is 
quite time for him to put in an appearance,” laughed Clara. 

Her laugh was echoed from the base of the veranda stairs, 
and Manley himself, with an oar in either hand, bounded 
into their immediate presence. 

“ Talk of the fiend, they say, and here he is,” cried he, in 
those gleeful, ringing tones of his; then, with a bow to 
Naomi, as he stood the oars against the side of the house : 
“ Miss Naomi, I am in heaven once more.” 

Naomi turned crimson, and Clara exclaimed . 

“In heaven, Manley! In what an extraordinary place 


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for a fiend to find himself! Mr. Sedgewick, allow me to 
introduce my brother.” 

Pride sounded in her voice and glowed in her happy eyes, 
and Manley Clavering impulsively turned to offer his hand 
in eager welcome of the stranger. 

Orlando Sedgewick rose from his chair and accepted 
both hand and welcome. Had he been told an hour before 
that he would have done so, he might have called the 
speaker a liar. But the anticipated currents of our lives 
are sometimes turned awry when least expected, and by 
causes most unlooked for. 

“ I am glad to know you, Mr. Sedgewick, and glad to wel- 
come you at the house on the bluff,” said Manley, with that 
genuine heartiness which won him the liking of all. 

“Thank you. I am equally glad to meet you, and I 
appreciate your thoughtful kindness of to-day,” responded 
Sedgewick; and, though his eyes were given to a strangely 
searching scrutiny of the other’s face, his voice had a ring 
that pleased his hearer. 

“Good enough, and you are very welcome,” replied Man- 
ley. “ I am glad that you were able to accept. Hope you 
will feel like coming over frequently, and I’ll do my best to 
entertain you. Though,” added he, taking the oars; “I’m 
not much of a companion — not half as agreeable as those 
you may have to leave behind. Well, girls, are you ready? 
It is nearing the middle of the afternoon, and time and tide 
wait for no man.” 

“Ready! exclaimed Clara, in arch reproval. “We have 
been waiting for you nearly half an hour.” 

“Sorry, I’m sure,” was the laughing rejoinder; “but I 
had to go down to the creek for my oars, which were in the 
float. Come, Miss Naomi, you are a sailor, I see — or a 
sailoress ; so I will allow you to carry one of these and walk 
along with me. You shall be my first mate.” 


CURRENTS TURNED AWRY. 


189 


His buoyancy was resistless. It served to dispel, in part, 
Naomi’s too observable depression, even ; and, smiling and 
blushing, she accepted the light oar which he tendered, and 
together they started on ahead. 

“You would not care to go, father, dear?” asked Clara, 
bending to kiss him, and revealing to waiting Sedgewick a 
tender thoughtfulness which he had vainly looked for in the 
son. 

“ No, I think not,” Mr. Clavering answered fondly. 
“ You will not be very long away ? ” 

“Only about an hour, dear. You can fly the flag, should 
you wish us to return before, and we will hasten. Come, 
Mr. Sedgewick.” 

There was an expression of melancholy on the latter’s 
face as they moved away across the lawn and down the hill. 
Once he paused to look back at the gentle old man, who 
had now arisen from his chair and was gazing after them ; 
and Clara took occasion to say : 

“ He dislikes to have us both away. He is very kind, 
and I rarely leave him long alone. He is getting on in 
years, you know; and,” she added half sadly; “one cannot 
be too considerate.” 

“ True,” said Sedgewick, and there sounded in his deep 
voice an admiration which sent a tinge of color to Clara’s 
cheeks. “You are very thoughtful — very good.” 

“Well, one can hardly call it goodness,” said Clara, with 
an odd feeling of awe awakened by the other’s gravity. 
“ It comes so very natural to be kind to those who are kind 
to us.” 

“True again; and you must be very happy here.” 

“ Indeed we are, Mr. Sedgewick,” she replied, thinking 
his remark quite as odd as himself. “ I could not well be 
otherwise, seeing my father’s great happiness since Manley 
returned. And he has suffered so in the past ! I am sure 


190 


UNION DOWN 


that he deserves all the happiness that can come to him in 
his few remaining years. It would occasion me great grief, 
were aught to happen to renew my father’s sorrow.” 

Sedgewick averted his face and gazed across the bay. 

“And is your brother quite as considerate as yourself?” 
he at length asked gently. 

Clara regarded him with surprise, but could detect in his 
gravely pleasant face no incentive to such a question. 

“ Why, yes, I think so,” she answered slowly. “ Manley 
is never other than good and kind. Sometimes, when he is 
off fishing or gunning, he remains away rather longer than 
we could wish; till his father becomes anxious, you under- 
stand. Then we fly our American flag from the staff on 
the cupola yonder.” 

“Indeed?” queried Sedgewick, smiling. 

“Yes; it can be seen from a long distance, you know. 
It is our signal that we wish Manley to return — which he 
invariably does as speedily as possible. He calls it our sig- 
nal of distress.” 

“ A flag flying union down is the customary signal of dis- 
tress,” remarked Sedgewick. 

“ So Manley says ; but we don’t invert the flag, for I think 
it looks prettier when flying in the usual way. Don’t you ?” 
asked Clara naively, looking up at him with an ingenuous 
laugh. 

“I do, indeed,” he replied, regarding her almost fondly. 

Then he relapsed into silence, into thoughts which can 
have no record here; but his somber eyes were bent with 
a strange, sad earnestness on the young man walking on 
ahead. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


ABOARD THE CLARA. 

Randolph Clavering had not spoken vainly when he 
said his boy should have a yacht. She was as graceful as a 
swan and spotless white, sheering in a beautiful line from 
bow aft to the commodious standing-room with its crimson 
cushioned seats. The blue waters were parted at her knife- 
like stem, and swept along the sides in dark depths dizzying 
to look upon ; then, with a gurgle and growl about the rud- 
der blade, streamed away astern in a long white wake of 
bursting foam. 

Stretching far away in either direction was the low, yel- 
low line of sandy shore, deep with indentures where the 
glittering sea made in. Then a rising sweep of dark-green 
meadows, crossed and squared by the gray stonewalls, and 
terminating only at the white houses of the village, whose 
roofs and windows reflected the dazzling rays of sunlight. 
And beyond all these were the distant hills and darker 
woods, almost black against the azure of the sky. 

There was a fifth person aboard the Clara that warm 
afternoon early in May. He was the skipper of the little 
craft, recently appointed by Manley Clavering, whose late 
enjoyment of a helmsman’s responsibilities seemed to have 
suddenly waned. 

The coarse hands of John Godbold held the wheel. His 
uglier, if not coarser, face was lighted by an unusual expres- 
sion of self-gratulation. His frouzy hair had been coaxed 

191 


192 


UNION DOWN. 


into a semblance of neatness, and, his rough dress gave 
evidence of recent application of the corn broom. It was a 
rare attempt at respectability. 

There was much of the lower animal about John God- 
bold, and, when he saw Sedgewick board the yacht, his sen- 
sations were probably not very unlike those of a well-bred 
watch-dog, on beholding a strange intruder upon his 
domain. Despite his ignorance, the seaman was possessed 
of far more natural keenness and cunning than was Manley, 
and in Sedgewick’s grave face and reserved manner there 
was something which vaguely roused his apprehensions. 
He was too well pleased by his present unexpected pros- 
perity, too assured of the yield from his recently discovered 
gold mine, to tamely brook interference ; to preclude which, 
even crime itself were, if necessary, a speedy resort. As 
they stood down the bay, he kept his ears alert, and his 
gray eyes, glittering brightly under the cap drawn low upon 
his brow, frequently diverted from the course ahead and 
were bent in studious scrutiny of the apparently unobserv- 
ing stranger. 

“There !” exclaimed Manley, as he finished coiling the 
throat-halliards, and threw himself with graceful abandon 
to the cushions at Naomi’s side. “What in the way of 
enjoyment can surpass this ? Here we have a comfortable 
boat, a whole-sail breeze and a cloudless sky — and more 
enjoyable than all else, which by the way I nearly over- 
looked, two charming young ladies, peerless in the county, 
if not the country. How about that, Sedgewick? Am I 
not right?” 

“I would be very ungallant to deny you,” replied 
Sedgewick, smiling at the other’s genial freedom. 

“You are an ^discriminating flatterer, Mr. Manley, and 
should know that personal remarks are very unbecoming,” 
blushed Clara, in affected indignation. 


ABOARD THE CLARA. 


193 


“Flattery of you — Pest impossible /” laughed Manley, 
casting an eye ahead. “ Shape her course well into the 
wind, Mr. Godbold, and we’ll round yonder point on this 
tack. I think she will make it.” 

“ Ay, ay, Cap’n Clavering, she’ll make it right enough,” 
rumbled Godbold, bearing down on the wheel till the throat 
of the snowy sail began to tremble in the breeze. 

“Captain Clavering!” exclaimed Clara, with a bright 
little laugh and an indescribable shrug of her shapely shoul- 
ders. “Captain Clavering! Pray, Mr. Godbold, are we all 
expected to address with so exalted a title that young man 
who assumes so undignified an attitude on yonder 
cushions ?” 

“Wal, Miss Clavering, it’s not fur me to say as to the 
rest o’ yer ; but it’s a matter o’ custom an’ respect with me. 
I’d skurce know how to spea*k to the master of a trim little 
craft like this ’ere, onless I put a handle afore his name.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Godbold, I think you are right,” said Clara, 
with mock gravity. “ Captain Clavering, I beg your 
pardon.” 

“Granted,” blushed Manley, laughing at her innocent 
raillery. 

“ I am sure, if I were you, I would insist upon it,” said 
Naomi, soberly. 

“ So I shall, Miss Naomi, and the very first breach of 
discipline shall receive merited punishment. The offender 
shall be put in irons, or given a taste of the cat.” 

“ How terrible ! ” murmured Naomi. “ The cat ! ” 

“ She is a fine boat, Captain Clavering,” remarked 
Sedgewick, with a smile ; “and rides the water like a duck. 
Mr. Godbold, you handle her like one familiar with the 
business.” 

“Wal, sir, I’m to hum on a boat, but not much used to a 
craft o’ this size,” answered the seaman, at once suspicious 


194 


UNION DOWN 


of the compliment. “I’m more to hum aboard a square- 
rigged clipper.” 

“As the Bounding Wave, for example.” 

Manley felt his heart leap to his throat, and he sent a 
swift, searching glance to the speaker’s guileless face. 

“ Ay, sir, such as the Bounding Wave,” replied Godbold, 
with inquiring eyes. “I’ve sailed her many a knot through 
fair weather an’ foul, but I’ve no remembrance o’ seein’ 
you, Mr. Sedgewick, aboard o’ her.” 

“That is hardly to be expected,” smiled Sedgewick; 
“for to the best of my knowledge and belief I never saw 
her. I have heard somebody say, however — my friend, 
Mr. Wiseacre, I think — that the Bounding Wave was the 
name of your vessel.” 

Manley breathed a faint sigh of relief. His momentary 
apprehensions were dispelled by the frank manner of the 
speaker. Not so, however, John Godbold. There had 
been, chiefly in -Orlando Sedgewick’s tone, something 
which augmented the seaman’s vague suspicions. 

“Ay, sir, so it were,” he replied briefly; and, although 
his eyes were now turned upon the course ahead, his cun- 
ning brain was revolving thoughts worthy a finished logician. 

The sudden listing of the boat drew a little gasp of alarm 
from Clara, and involuntarily she caught the arm of Sedge- 
wick, who was seated beside her. 

“ Do not fear,” said he, assuringly. 

“ I do not. I was taken by surprise,” she replied, color- 
ing at her action ; then, with a smile, as the yacht righted : 
“ You remember what I told you before we started.” 

“And you remember my answer — I cannot swim a 
stroke, and should go to the bottom like a man of lead,” 
laughed Sedgewick. 

John Godbold heard and remembered. 

“There is no danger, is there?” Naomi asked softly; 


ABOARD THE CLARA. 


195 


then she turned slightly and looked over the side, down into 
the depth of darkness that was surging by. 

Sedgewick alone, seated nearly opposite, saw the expres- 
sion which swiftly crossed her splendid face. It cut to his 
heart like a knife. It was painful in its brief intensity. It 
was like despair seeking a refuge. It was like agony view- 
ing repose. But it was gone in an instant. Her deep, 
strangely sad eyes seemed to shrink appalled from the 
chilling sea, and over neck and face and brow surged a sud- 
den flood of red — as if all that was grand in an heroic 
character had impulsively uprisen to shame ignoble fear. 

For the moment Sedgewick’s heart felt like a heart of 
lead. 

“ Danger ! ” exclaimed Manley, with a laugh almost of 
derision — a rare laugh from his lips, and one which some- 
how set Naomi to trembling nervously. “Not aboard the 
Clara, with John Godbold at the wheel ! Is there, John?” 

And the seaman shook his grizzled head and smiled 
grimly. 

Clara glanced at her foster-brother, and with vague fears 
wondered at his familiarity with such a character. Her 
apprehensions were not diminished when that homeward 
walk from the seaman’s cottage, and her observations 
therein, recurred to her; but love was strong within her, 
and she could not think ill of the genial, generous, joyous 
Manley Clavering, whom none should have known so 
well as she. 

The hour upon the water passed quickly, and on the 
whole pleasantly enough. Returning home, as they climbed 
the hill which led to the house on the bluff, Naomi lagged a 
little, as if weary, and allowed Mr. Sedgewick and Clara to 
draw on in advance. When they were out of easy hearing, 
she turned to Manley at her side and said gently : 

“ You have not lately been over to see me.” 


196 


UNION DOWN 


He looked like one who might have expected this, yet 
when it came he turned a trifle pale and avoided looking at 
her. 

“No?” said he, inquiringly. 

Naomi turned very white and her lip began to tremble. 

" It is more than a week, Manley,” said she, with unvary- 
ing and almost pitiable gentleness. 

“Is it?” answered he, like one constrained; and felt in 
his pocket for a cigar. “ It has been longer, then, than I 
had imagined.” 

“ I began to fear I had offended you.” 

“Offended me!” laughed Manley, uneasily, and a faint 
blush began to creep athwart his cheeks. “ What an idea, 
Naomi ! You never offend anyone.” 

“I inferred so only from your remaining so long away,” 
she replied with an effort — as of which all of this was 
plainly a result. 

“You wrong me, dear, by such an inference,” he 
answered soberly; and although the words were kind 
enough, they had none of that tenderness and consideration 
which .such words might suggest. 

She was hurt by their coolness. Tears were beginning 
to glisten in the terribly sad eyes which strove to read his 
partly averted face, and whose silent reproach he so stead- 
fastly avoided. 

“ Heaven knows I would not wrong you, Manley,” she 
replied, with a tenderness that seemed to sting him, and 
drove him to a dubious attempt to excuse his neglect. 

“The fact is,” said he, still without looking at her; “I 
have been busy most of the time.” 

He could not bring himself to look at her. He dreaded 
to meet the eyes which he felt were seeking his so anx- 
iously. He walked slowly on by her side, gazing straight 
ahead, and appearing much like a coward, if not a knave. 


ABOARD THE CLARA. 


197 


“You were not wont to be so, Manley,” tremulously per- 
sisted Naomi, after a moment. “The time has been”- — 

She stopped abruptly, blushing crimson, for an impatient 
little gesture had escaped him, and she felt that she had 
fallen to humiliation. 

“But never mind what has been,” she hastened to add, 
with indescribable sadness. “What is, is enough.” 

Manley Clavering’s better nature was finally stirred by 
her too evident distress. He turned and looked at her, say- 
ing anxiously : 

“Naomi, dear, what do you mean? Don’t be so foolish 
as to imagine that I am changed of feeling.” 

“ I hope you are not,” she replied slowly, with quivering 
lips and burning eyes. “If you are, my name will no 
longer be — See 1 they have turned back and are pausing to 
wait for us!” she broke off to exclaim, like one in inex- 
pressible alarm, and referring to Sedgewick and Clara. 

“ Your name ! ” gasped Manley, with a vague horror 
showing in his eyes. “What would you have me” — 

“No more — at least, not now!” she interrupted, in an 
imploring whisper. “Don’t let them know! In heaven’s 
name, don’t let them suspect that I have spoken thus — that 
I am feeling thus ! ” 

And despite Manley’s attempt to stay her, she hurried 
past him up the hill, her hands pressed above her heart, 
her face unnatural in its enforced calmness, and rejoined 
Sedgewick and Clara, who had waited just above. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A MEETING. 

“Yes, he is very much of a gentleman, this Sedge- 
wick. Hannah says she knew it from the moment she saw 
the way in which he handled his knife and fork. How like 
Hannah! He is an easy talker, also; quite a philosopher, 
in fact. His moderation is a characteristic which I com- 
mend to your emulation, my impulsive Manley.” 

“ It’s out of my line,” returned Manley, drily. “ His eyes 
impressed me more favorably than his moderation. They’re 
as keen and bright as an eagle’s.” 

“At times they are,” thought Clara ;^“ and at others as 
soft and gentle as a mother’s.” 

“ I’d wager he has back of them a devil’s own temper, 
when once it’s roused,” grimly continued Manley; for 
which inelegant observation Clara punished him with a look 
of reproof, softened ere she knew it to one of fondness. 

The three were standing on the veranda in the dusk of 
the early evening. The last good-night had been spoken, 
the last reiteration to come again had been sent after the 
departing guests, and Sedgewick and Naomi were disappear- 
ing into the deeper darkness which enveloped the driveway 
at the edge of the park, into which the road entered as into 
the mouth of a cavern. 

Randolph Clavering drew closer around his slender 
figure the voluminous folds of his thick woolen wrap, and 
walked away to sit awhile by himself in his large willow 

198 


A MEETING. 


199 


chair, and to gaze thoughtfully at the silvery sea — thought- 
fully of himself and of those nearest him, of their present 
and their future, and perhaps of his own lost past. The 
remarks of the stranger who had lately departed had ren- 
dered him moody. 

Manley shifted to a more comfortable attitude on the bal- 
uster rail and pulled vigorously at his cigar. He felt 
uneasy. Even the comforting weed did not serve to alleviate 
his sense of dejection, and his face, more than pale and 
gloomy, was expressive of bitter irritation and self-disgust. 
He was thinking of Naomi ; of the piteous appeal which 
had sounded in her words, spoken as they came up from 
the boat. He was inwardly shrinking from her distressful 
eyes, shrinking only as conscious guilt can shrink from the 
absent. The cloud upon his brow was not dispelled by 
Clara’s approach, even — nor by her question. 

“What was the matter with Naomi this afternoon?” she 
asked, clasping the pillar near which Manley was seated, 
and regarding him with a curious look of inquiry. 

“ Matter?” 

“Yes; did you not observe it? I never saw her so 
strangely silent and self-absorbed. It was almost like 
despondency.” 

“Is that so? I didn’t notice.” 

“ I hope she has nothing serious on her mind, no trouble 
at home.” 

“ So do I, I’m sure,” said Manley, smoking steadily. 

“Did she speak of any to you?” 

“ To me ? ” 

And now he ventured to turn and look at her, having till 
now been gazing fixedly at the dark wall of woods a hun- 
dred yards away. 

“ When you were coming up the hill with her,” explained 
Clara. “I saw that you were talking very earnestly, and 


200 


UNION DOWN. 


she seemed so sad and subdued during the next half- 
hour.” 

Manley, accused by his own guilty conscience, wondered 
if she were jealous. He got down from the rail and stood 
close beside her, taking her hand in his. 

“What an observing little darling you are getting to be, 
my Clara,” smiled he, raising the resistless hand to his lips. 
“Do you imagine me to have been her confidant, or her 
confessor? I hardly think there is anything wrong with 
her, since consolation would have first been sought from 
your own sweet self. Perhaps she is in love, as — as — ah, 
women are strange creatures ! ” 

“How strange? Why so, Manley?” questioned Clara, 
slowly drawing away her hand, yet fondly looking up into 
his eyes, her mind eased by that apparent affection which 
she could not at such moments doubt. 

He yielded to temptation, as he always had and did, and 
pressed his warm lips to hers, thrilled to the heart when 
she did not repel him. 

“In this, my sweetest, dearest one of all the world,” 
breathed he, in murmurs tremulous with feeling. “They 
allow us to leave our kisses on their lips and heavenly faces, 
long for their every kindly word and loving caress, yearn 
for them until the sick heart cries out in genuine anguish ; 
yet will give us no response such as would rejoice us, trans- 
late us ! but, instead, will linger out here in a thin dress, 
perhaps to catch their death of cold from the damp evening 
air, and so make us even more miserable. Run into the 
house and make a change, my own Clara.” 

She laughed softly, half sadly, at his unexpected conclu- 
sion; and moved away to obey him, as if in that might 
have been found her whole of life itself. When she 
came out again upon the veranda, Manley Clavering had 
disappeared. 


A MEETING. 


201 


In the meantime, Sedgewick and Naomi were walking 
homeward. As they moved away from the sea, the wind 
died to a calm and the impressive quietude of field and 
country fell around them. The twilight in which they had 
departed from the house on the bluff deepened well-nigh to 
darkness, and one by one the stars came out in the silent 
heavens. 

They scarcely spoke in a quarter-mile. He had offered 
her his arm and she had accepted it. He could feel the 
beating of her heart from the contact. He thought it beat 
heavily, as if under a load. Were he to have spoken, and 
spoken his mind, his words must have been of her, not of 
those other currents of thought which had swept him into 
the circle of her life, yet which were fast becoming under- 
currents to the rising tide of love within him. 

He recalled her face as it had appeared at that moment 
when danger of the sea had been suggested, when for a sin- 
gle instant she had looked like one almost eager to embrace 
such a peril. 

He would have been glad to have spoken to her of her- 
self, of his love for her; but he dared not. He instinct- 
ively felt that she would shrink from anything directly 
personal ; and, too, that which had come to him like a tacit 
warning, still was painfully fresh in his mind. 

Naomi was scarcely conscious of their long silence. 
There are times when one’s own thoughts cannot be 
directed at will. Hers were a glowing confusion, a fever- 
ish chaos of ideas frightfully woven together, and the riot of 
brain was beginning to weaken her physically. Uncon- 
sciously her steps began to drag. 

“You are weary,” said Sedgewick. 

His low tone, indescribably gentle, brought her back with 
a start to a realization of his presence and the duties it con- 
strained. They had reached the end of the long road beneath 


202 


UNION DOWN. 


the trees, and were emerging into the main highway, where 
the starlight was brighter. 

“A little,” she answered simply, and her voice trembled, 
as will the voice of one who is eager for solitude, eager to sob 
and cry to the heart’s content. 

“ I am sorry.” 

“Sorry?” She looked at him with wide, inquiring eyes, 
their deeper expression indescribable. “ Do not feel so ; it 
is nothing.” 

“Yes — for I am the cause of it,” said Sedgewick softly. 
“I should not have wished you to make this visit.” 

“I beg that you will not think so,” replied Naomi, moved 
well-nigh to tears by his grave tenderness. “I preferred. to 
accept the invitation, really I did. I should have been 
sorry had you declined. I — I am not very weary ; only I 
— I” — 

She stopped, as if unable to continue, and he ventured to 
say gently : 

“You are troubled by something; you are unhappy.” 

Naomi turned suddenly pale, and for an instant her dark 
eyes flashed half rebelliously at his. 

“What do you mean?” she demanded chokingly. “What 
do you mean ? Why do you speak so to me ? ” 

He laid one hand over that within his arm, for she seemed 
about to withdraw it. More than like one who would be a 
lover, he was like a gentle, sympathetic brother. 

“ Forgive me,” he said, without looking directly at her. 
“I did wrong; I spoke without thinking. I myself am so 
frequently unhappy — as, indeed, I have sad occasion — that I 
know by sorrowful experience the symptoms of mental distress. 
Pardon, I now am speaking of myself only. I am glad that 
I was in error.” 

She looked at him, scarce knowing how to take him ; then 
asked, like one half suspicious : 


A MEETING. 


203 


“Why should you think me unhappy?” 

“Nay, I said that I spoke without thinking. Indeed I 
hope that you are not. I myself should be unhappy, know- 
ing that you were so.” 

“ I do not think I understand you, Mr. Sedgewick. 
I am not aware that my condition should affect you. We 
are comparative strangers.” 

“True, so we are,” was the grave rejoinder. “Much of 
my life has been spent among strangers. I have traveled 
some. I would be glad to know that I were coming to 
something like permanent rest; to feel that I had a home of 
my own in view, and that one of the chief duties of my life 
were well done. I have suffered some, and perhaps my suf- 
fering has taught me to be considerate and sympathetic. I 
hope so, at least.” 

“You speak very kindly,” murmured Naomi, with down- 
cast eyes. “You are very good.” 

“Not nearly enough so. I would be, if I could; and 
always eager to befriend one in distress.” 

Naomi was trembling, and she essayed to change the 
subject. 

“ I can easily believe you, for you have proven it. How 
did you like Miss Clavering ? ” 

Sedgewick subdued a smile. 

“Very much,” he replied quite warmly. “She is very 
gentle and charming. She has the sweetest of natures, and 
would make a true and loving friend, but never an enemy. 
She should have been born later.” 

“ Later ? Why so ? ” 

' “ Because she is naturally so innocent and confiding that 
she is sadly in danger of being imposed upon. She is a sort 
of hothouse flower, so to speak, too tender for this spring- 
time of moral life. She should have been born when men 
have become better than they are to-day.” 


204 


UNION DOWN 


Naomi looked up at him with wondering, almost admiring, 
eyes, and her heart beat faster. She could not divine his 
object in the expression of such sentiments, but perhaps 
she had good reason to appreciate them. 

“You speak against your own order,” said she, faintly. 

“Not undeservedly, I hope. I think I know whereof I 
speak.” 

“And your opinion of women in general, is it equally 
unfavorable ? ” 

“I think not. My opinion cannot be worth much, how- 
ever, for my experience with women has been very limited. 
The few I have known well, are worthy only of emulation. 
Women are not fairly understood by most men. There is 
in woman’s nature something which man rarely appreciates.” 

“They appear to have a warm advocate in you; I ought 
to thank you for them.” 

“That is quite unnecessary, Miss Naomi, since memories 
of my mother are still fresh and green,” said Sedgewick, 
reverently. 

His breast heaved a little, and the woman by his side 
crushed down an affection which, despite her will, was 
creeping into her heart and taking root there. For some 
distance they walked on in silence through the semi- 
darkness. 

A person was approaching on the same side of the 
road — a woman. They drew a little aside to allow her to 
pass, but the woman half halted and spoke. 

“Good-evening to you, Naomi; and to you, Mr. 
Clavering.” 

Orlando Sedgewick recoiled, reeling slightly in the dim 
light, and staring with amazed eyes at the speaker. 

Naomi glanced at him, then at the woman. 

“You have made a mistake, Mrs. Dawson,” said she. 
“ This gentleman is not Manley Clavering.” 


A MEETING. 


206 


Margaret Dawson, returning with strange steadfastness 
Sedgewick’s stare, seemed for a moment not to have heard 
her. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she at length muttered slowly, but 
with unwavering gaze. 

“It is of no consequence,” said Sedgewick, politely. 

“ It is so dark, Naomi, that I could not see plainly,” said 
Margaret Dawson, turning now to her. “ Pray excuse me.” 

Naomi bowed and smiled, and they passed on their way. 

But Margaret Dawson remained motionless in the walk, 
gazing after them, her hands raised to her breast, her eyes 
glowing and her grim face grown strangely fixed and pale. 

“Who was that woman?” asked Sedgewick, as they 
walked on. 

“Her name is Margaret Dawson,” replied Naomi. “She 
is a peculiar, I imagine half-demented, person, whom I 
have known for a number of years.” 

“ Does she live here in town ?” 

“Yes, over in that direction, near the shore.” 

They had reached the low flight of steps which led up to 
Mr. Wiseacre’s lawn. Sedgewick stopped there, and took 
the hand which had rested on his arm. 

“You are not coming in?” asked Naomi, in some sur- 
prise. 

“Not quite yet,” he replied softly. “I wish to be alone 
for a little while.” 

She stood upon the step above him, and he retained her 
hand, gazing with grave fondness into her eyes, which were 
turned toward him. She was trembling, and looked as if 
she feared what he might be about to say. His considera- 
tion led him to hesitate, but the memory of her words early 
that afternoon was not to be overcome. 

“Naomi,” he said gravely; and when she started, turn- 
ing very pale, and strove to withdraw her hand, his voice 


206 


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fell to a pleading tone of almost infinite tenderness. 
“Naomi, I may do wrong in speaking thus to you, but I 
speak as one who remembers with pain and sadness your 
words of this afternoon. You said that slight causes were 
sometimes productive of serious effects. I may have mis- 
understood you. I so earnestly hope that I did ! Naomi, 
I” — 

She seemed to divine what was coming. Trembling 
like a leaf and pale to the lips, with eyes in which an over- 
whelming fear was manifest, she tried to draw away her 
hand, and interrupted him with an appeal that was fairly 
piteous in its intensity. 

“Oh, Mr. Sedgewick, I beg that you will stop! Do not 
say more ; not now — not now! Let me go into the house! 
If you are the man I think you, let me go ! ” 

He read but one meaning in her words, one significance 
in her too evident distress. His face had become as 
white as marble. 

“ Pardon!” cried he, huskily. 

He bowed for an instant above her hand, trembling so 
in his, then turned and walked away through the darkness; 
but the darkness without was as nothing, when compared 
to the darkness within. 


CHAPTER XX. 


STILL WATERS. 

For ten days following those occurrences which were last 
depictured, John Godbold had, to quote the seaman’s own 
expression, been keeping his weather eye peeled. 

The startling incidents which had befallen him since his 
discharge from the Bounding Wave, had awakened in him a 
strong desire, as well as a most vicious determination, to 
gain his livelihood by some more easy and tasteful method 
than that of following the blue and briny, to borrow also 
from Mr. Wiseacre. 

First of all had occurred the remarkable scene with 
Nancy Brandon, when, on that stormy night, the seaman 
had found himself penniless in Boston streets, and eager to 
sell the ring to which he had clung for nearly a year in the 
vain hope of encountering the man whom he had known as 
Calvin Raymond. As he looked back to that night, John 
Godbold decided upon it as the turning point of his luck, 
the sweep of his star into the ascendant. Money, thrice the 
value of the bauble in his possession, had been speedily 
forthcoming; and scarcely had the ring passed out of his 
hands, when he ran point-blank into the very man whom 
he had been most eager to discover — and, too, under 
circumstances most favorable to his nefarious designs. 

Following this, Manley had been forced to take the sea- 
man into his confidence, in so far as falsely explaining 
his neglect of Nancy may be so called; but for the actual 

207 


208 


UNION DOWN. 


truth John Godbold cared little or nothing, so long as 
money was provided him and the bargain made upon the 
beach with Manley maintained. 

One idea, however, soon became a stickler in the sea- 
man’s busy brain. He distinctly recalled Nancy’s terrible 
anxiety, and her eagerness to know the whole truth con- 
cerning the death of her husband; and he remembered of 
having told her where and how the information might be 
obtained. Yet never a word or sign from her had been 
forthcoming. Had she forgotten his instructions? If so, 
he was ready to let the matter rest, so long as Manley con- 
tinued to come to the terms agreed. Or had she satisfied 
herself with the little information she had already secured? 
John Godbold at once sat down upon that as being wholly 
unlike a woman, and quite out of the question. But 
one other presumption remained — that she perhaps had 
entrusted an investigation to a third party. If so, to 
whom? 

The seaman looked about him with his rat-like eyes and 
discovered Mr. Sedgewick, now located for nearly a month 
in the Wiseacre household, and apparently with no more 
important occupation than that of killing time; and he very 
soon decided that Mr. Sedgewick would bear watching, 
whereupon it came to pass that the seaman had been keep- 
ing his weather eye peeled. 

As in duty bound, servant to master, and with all the 
shrewdness of self-protection, he confided his ideas to 
Manley Clavering; but the latter, quite lacking of the 
other’s natural cunning, and being blinded by circumstances 
which he thought warranted his own confidence, laughed in 
the face of the seaman’s suspicions. 

“You’re away off, John,” he said one morning, as he 
stood supervising an alteration of one of the sails aboard 
the yacht. “You’re away off. This Sedgewick is a perfect 


STILL WATERS . 


209 


brick, when you come to know him well. He’s as square 
as a die.” 

“Wal, like enough he be,” rejoined Godbold, looking up 
from his needle. “ I hope so, fur your sake.” 

“For your own, you mean,” said Manley, bluntly. 

“Ay, an’ fur my own, too,” admitted the seaman, with a 
leer. “ I’m in purty smooth sailin’ just now, an’ no mistake^ 
an’ I mean to let no squall catch me nappin’. It’ll do no 
harm to keep an eye on him fur awhile, whether or not he 
shapes his present course fur sake o’ the pawnbroker’s 
darter.” 

“Faugh! that idea is nonsensical!” exclaimed Manley. 
“Do you imagine he would hang about here for nearly a 
month, on a bit of business to be begun and ended in a day? ” 

“ Wal, yer see, I don’t know how the wind sot that yer 
should a steered clear o’ the woman in the fust place. It 
don’t look as if there were much money in it, an’ if”- — 

“There was no money in it, John,” interrupted Manley. 
“There was really very little reason for my avoiding Nancy 
Brandon, and one of these days I mean to go to her and 
explain the whole business. As to your alarm over 
Sedgewick, you may as well drop it ; for, even if he really 
represents this woman, he can do no more than require an 
explanation, which I have ready on my tongue’s end at a 
moment’s notice.” 

“I’m glad o’ that,” grinned Godbold; “fur I’d sort o’ 
feel obleeged to put him out o’ the way, if I thought him 
like to foul my lines.” 

Manley Clavering turned pale. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he exclaimed half angrily. “ Don’t 
you dare to contemplate such a move ! I tell you he is all 
right and a royal good fellow, despite his being so deuced 
odd. Besides, he may yet turn out mighty useful to me; 
there’s no knowing.” 


210 


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“An’ how’s that? ” 

“Well,” replied Manley, tossing the end of his cigar over 
the side; “between you and me, he has fallen over head 
and ears in love with Naomi Wiseacre; and if he can only 
win her affection, he will relieve me of something of a men- 
tal load, to say nothing of more serious troubles from 
that quarter. No, no, John; don’t bother your head 
about Sedgewick.” 

And, indeed, Manley’s confidence was not entirely unwar- 
ranted. To one as well informed of Sedgewick’s mission as 
is the reader, his movements must appear strangely slow and 
indecisive. Since the afternoon aboard the yacht, he had not 
so much as spoken to or of John Godbold. He seemed to 
have let Nancy Brandon’s affair go completely by the 
board. 

He had made, however, several visits to the house on the 
bluff, favorably impressing its several inmates by his 
gravely pleasant bearing, and observing with studious eyes 
every indication of those warm family relations which alone 
serve to make home one of the richest possessions of 
humanity. 

To Randolph Clavering and Clara he was particularly 
drawn ; while, on their part, believing him to be only a tran- 
sient visitor in the town, they already had begun to regret 
the day of his departure, when he would pass out, perhaps 
forever, from the quiet circle of their lives. 

Yet, despite these indications of inward ease, Sedgewick 
was far from happy. His love for Naomi deepened steadily, 
and against an invincible sense of hopelessness. Though 
she was invariably gentle and courteous, her kindness was 
not without those qualities which serve (o keep one at a 
distance. He studied her carefully, but he could not 
understand her ; yet his study led him to observe what 
others had failed as yet to notice — indications of failing 


STILL WATERS. 


211 


health, periods of subdued mental excitement, followed by- 
dejection which she strove wilfully to conceal. 

He would gladly have become her confidant and con- 
soler ; but, with a power which he could not overcome, she 
persistently held him aloof. As a result, he became more 
and more reserved and moody, spending much of his time 
in walking the fields and beaches, deep in those cogitations 
which were making more marked and permanent upon his 
brow the lines which bespeak unhappiness, anxiety and 
doubt. 

Indeed, so far as outward observations would go to show, 
the creatures of these pages seemed to be floating for the 
most part on still waters. But the waters were deep, and 
these days of quietude were the harbingers only of the bit- 
terest of storms. 

Instead of being admitted to the confidence of Naomi, 
which he so much desired, Mr. Sedgewick, rather to his 
surprise, found himself appealed to for counsel by another, 
and in such a way as to profoundly affect him. 

It occurred one morning about the first of June. He had 
passed an hour in talk with Randolph Clavering, and was 
walking slowly homeward through the shady lane, when he 
unexpectedly encountered Clara, whom he had missed at 
the house, and who was returning from a far from agreeeble 
interview of her own. 

The sadness revealed in her face was dispelled when she 
saw him approaching, or rather gave place to a swift expres- 
sion of resolution, the nature of which will appear in what 
followed. At her suggestion, made after their greeting, 
Sedgewick turned to walk back a little distance with her. 

“ I wish to ask you about something,” she explained, as 
they proceeded. 

“Ask me?” smiled he, in that grave way of his. “And 
pray what may it be about ? ” 


212 


UNION DOWN. 


“ You would not object to giving me some advice, would 
you?” she inquired; and her wavering voice, and the 
almost piteous look of appeal which she gave him, instantly 
sent to his face an expression of that thoughtful solicitude 
for others which so strongly characterized him. 

“ On the contrary, I would be very glad to do so, should 
it be in my power to advise you wisely,” he replied warmly. 

That she had expected this, was revealed in the grateful 
eyes which she raised to his. She seemed to appreciate 
his nature, and had approached him as one might have 
have approached a brother. Though but little older than 
herself, he seemed to be mensurably wiser, and strangely 
given, in his gravely earnest way, to indirectly influencing 
one to love of virtue — she, unobserved, had heard him 
talking to her father. 

“I felt that you would,” she answered. “And you will 
not think me bold ? ” 

“Indeed, I will not — could not.” 

“I am so strangely placed, and — and, in a way, so very 
unhappy. I can hardly endure it, yet I scarce knew to 
whom I should turn — until I came to know you so well — 
or, pardon me, I mean” — 

“ I am touched by your confidence,” softly interposed 
Sedgewick, observing the modest embarrassment into which 
she had led herself. 

“Thank you very much for your kindness. If this were 
of myself alone, I would try to bear it silently and not 
trouble you ; but I am making another unhappy, and I feel 
that I may be doing very wrong.” 

“ Do not feel that you will trouble me,” said Sedgewick, 
assuringly ; and he now surmised, in a vague way, what was 
coming. “You maybe sure that I will hear, you patiently 
and strive^to^atjyise. you wisely. Have you spoken of the 
matter to your father ? ” 


STILL WATERS . 


213 


“I have spoken to no one, 15 replied Clara, looking up 
with moist eyes. “ My father has, I know, formed opinions 
which would influence his judgment, and I cannot speak of 
the matter to Manley. Other than these, I have no friends 
whose wisdom and experience would lead me to seek their 
advice; or, at least, none who appeal more strongly to my 
feelings than — than ” — 

“Myself?” 

“Yes, yourself, if you will pardon me.” 

“ It does not call for pardon, Miss Clara. I assure you 
of my interest.” 

“You are very good. You will understand me and my 
position directly. Would you object to sitting there on the 
seat ? I do not wish to reach home before * I have 
concluded.” 

Sedgewick bowed agreeably, and went with her to a gar- 
den seat beneath the trees and just out of sight from the 
house. While he had a vague idea of the cause of her 
unhappiness, he far from imagined the true significance of 
what was to come. 

Things, work about so mysteriously in this world of ouis. 
He was drawn to her by her gentle, lovable and modest 
nature ; she to him by those quiet yet powerful and manly 
qualities which are so quick to impress the heart of woman. 
She had, in her emergency, appealed to the man of all 
men. To him she was like a child, whose faith and confi- 
dence were things sacred, and to whose welfare and happi- 
ness he was from that moment reverently bound. 

“ I first must tell you something of myself,” said she, 
when they were seated ; “ a fact of which you may not be 
informed.” 

“Whatever you tell me shall be received in confidence 
and sacredly respected,” said Sedgewick, feeling that her 
disclosure was not of easy rendition. 


214 


UNION DOWN. 


“Thank you,” fervently cried Clara, raising her troubled 
eyes to his. “You promise what I did not like to ask, yet 
of which I felt comparatively sure. It will make less diffi- 
cult what I have to say.” 

“You may speak to me as you would speak to a parent,” 
said Sedgewick, with grave tenderness, for she was trem- 
bling visibly. 

“I will try to do so,” she replied; “for surely I am in 
need of a parent’s advice. Do you know, Mr. Sedgewick, 
that I am not Mr. Clavering’s daughter?” 

“ I know that you are his foster-daughter.” 

“ That is what I had to tell you of myself. I am sure 
that I need not add that he has been to me all that a father 
could be — kind and tender and considerate — and that, in 
return, I wish to be as loving, dutiful and obedient as if I 
were indeed his own child,” 

“ All this is very evident,” was the warm rejoinder. 

“ I have said, Mr. Sedgewick, that I am making another 
unhappy,” Clara continued tremulously. “You cannot 
imagine how this pains me, or how eagerly I would embrace 
the opportunity to” — 

“ May I ask who this other is ? ” softly interposed 
Sedgewick. 

Clara’s modest head drooped a little lower and a deep 
flush crept over the fairness of her cheeks. 

“ One whose every word and act have been those of kind- 
ness,” she replied chokingly; “whose ceaseless and tender 
attentions daily reveal to me a fact to which I cannot blind 
myself, and indeed have no wish to. I am speaking of my 
foster-brother — of Manley Clavering.” 

Sedgewick was growing very pale. 

“Do you mean to convey the idea that he loves you?” he 
asked gently. 

“ Yes/' answered Clara, with a deeper blush. Then she 


STILL WATERS . 


215 


again ventured to raise her tearful eyes to his, adding feel- 
ingly: “I cannot doubt it!” 

“And is it this that serves to make you both unhappy?” 
came the gravely tender question. 

With the ice thus broken, modest Clara opened her heart 
more freely. 

“It is that, and it is not that, Mr. Sedgewick,” said she, 
with a wealth of feeling. “ Heaven only knows how gladly 
I would devote myself to making Manley and my father 
happy, and — and how happy that service would make me, 
also. I feel how truly and deeply Manley loves me. It 
declares itself every day and hour. And I know, too, how 
earnestly my father wishes that we may come nearer to each 
other, grow to love one another more and more. It is the 
hope of his declining years that Manley and I will marry, 
that we will make his home our home in time to come. He 
does not seek to urge this upon me, has not even spoken 
plainly of it; but I see it, feel it, know it — that this is his 
fervent wish. And, oh, Mr. Sedgewick, he has been so 
good and kind to me, he has suffered so grievously in the 
past, that I cannot but feel cruel, heartless, day in and day 
out, when I hold myself aloof from this kindest of desires.” 

Sedgewick’s lips moved as if in an effort to speak, but no 
sound came from them. Something more than Clara’s con- 
fession itself Were surely required to have affected him so 
deeply. Clara did not observe him. Her tearful eyes were 
bent upon the greensward at her feet; and, with hands 
wound tightly together in her lap, and attention absorbed by 
her own stress of feeling, she continued : 

“You know the story of his past — my father’s; his years 
of sorrow, of yearning for his son’s return. His life, since 
I can remember, has been one of ceaseless mourning and — 
and resignation. And, oh, Mr. Sedgewick, when Manley 
did come home to him, it was like a heaven-sent blessing to 


216 


UNION DOWN. 


assuage the memory of bygone years. For Manley has 
been so tender, kind and considerate, so solicitous of his 
father’s comfort, so eager to anticipate his every wish, and 
oftentimes so self-sacrificing, that I feel like a culprit — a 
criminal, even — when I realize how -unworthy is my conduct 
toward two such loving and unselfish hearts.” 

Orlando Sedgewick’s paleness had become almost like 
that of marble, and he controlled his agitation by force of 
will alone. 

“Your conduct?” he said huskily. “I do not think I 
quite understand you.” 

“No, no, you cannot yet,” cried Clara, chokingly. “I 
am so strangely, so unhappily, placed. I am like one who 
is fettered. . I am bound by a promise made to one whose 
influence I cannot resist.” 

An expression of intense amazement leaped to Sedge- « 
wick’s eyes. His hands were suddenly and rigidly clenched, 
as if he thereby would prevent their trembling visibly. 

“ A promise ? ” he faltered, in a voice so strained that 
Clara, but for her own agitation, must have remarked it. 

“Yes,” she replied. “A promise made to a woman 
whose unselfish interest in my welfare I cannot bring myself 
to question.” 

“ What — what woman ? ” 

“I must refer to the very beginning in order that you 
may understand,” said Clara, oblivious to her hearer’s per- 
turbation. “It dates back several months, to a time soon 
after Manley’s return. I have had occasion to visit this 
woman for charitable purposes. She is very poor and is 
considered mentally unbalanced. Many times I have been 
obliged to dissuade her from contemplating death at her own 
hands. I have always pitied her deeply, and she seems 
profoundly touched by my solicitude. This is why I feel so 
sure that she means well by me. On one occasion, several 


STILL WATERS. 


21 ? 

months ago, she informed me that I stood in danger of 
being grievously wronged. Rather impressed by her earn- 
estness, I desired to know in what way. I will not attempt 
to tell you all that passed between us, or of my efforts to 
avoid a condition which she finally succeeded in imposing 
upon me. It was that I would pledge myself not to impart 
to my father or to Manley the nature of what she had to 
tell. I did pledge myself to this secrecy, foolishly I now 
fear ; for her disclosure consisted of nothing more than an 
earnest warning against Manley himself.. She begged'me, 
if I valued my happiness and future peace of mind, that I 
would keep my heart free from love of Manley Clavering; 
that I would yield to no effort of his to draw me into any 
sort of an alliance. Oh, Mr. Sedgewick, despite myself — 
despite my sense of justice, which cries out against it, I have 
not been able to escape this woman’s influence. I feel that 
I am doing wrong ! I know that I am doing wrong ! and yet 
I am so ” — 

“ Wait ! ” 

Sedgewick’s eyes were burning like fire, but his features 
had still the chill whiteness of marble. Clara, half in shame, 
half in modest confusion, could not bring herself to look at 
him. 

“This woman,” he continued, in tones which, despite his 
effort to enforce calmness, were hoarse and unnatural ; 
“ did not give her reasons for this warning ? ” 

“ No,” Clara replied sadly. “ She said only that she had 
absolute knowledge of what the future must bring forth if I 
disregarded her advice. Oh, Mr. Sedgewick, there have 
been so many misfortunes and miseries connected with the 
house on the bluff, that I — I ” — 

She could speak no further. Her voice, long choked by 
sobs, failed her completely, and she broke down in tears. 
“Do not feel badly; do not weep,” said Sedgewick, ten- 


218 


UNION DOWN 


derly, still with that awful look upon his face. “You think 
that this woman means to be your friend? would not do 
this vindictively?” 

“ I feel certain of it — cannot help so feeling ; and it is this, 
with all the rest, which so has subdued me to her power,” 
sobbed Clara. “ She begs me only to wait coming events; 
to withhold ” — 

“ One moment, please. Who is this woman ?” 

“ You — you will not ” — 

“ I will do nothing indiscreetly, or without your welfare 
and happiness close at heart,” assured Sedgewick. 

“ I should have known it,” said Clara, gratefully ; and her 
eyes, raised though they now were to his, were so suffused 
with tears as to blind her to his paleness. “ Her name is 
Margaret Dawson.” 

“The woman who mistook me for Manley Clavering!” 
thought Sedgewick. “And how long have you known 
her?” 

“ Ever since I was a child,” replied Clara. “ Oh, Mr. 
Sedgewick, if I thought that Manley were other than good 
and noble and ” — 

He stopped her by placing his hand gently upon hers, a 
touch whose tenderness she instinctively appreciated ; and, 
looking her in the eyes, gravely, almost sadly, now, he said 
softly : 

“ And you, Clara ? Tell me, as you would tell a father or 
a brother — do you love Manley Clavering?” 

A quick sob trembled on her lips, and a flood of reveal- 
ing color surged over her cheeks and brow. With tears 
filling lier eyes, she cried : 

“Oh, Mr. Sedgewick! I must answer frankly. I 
do” — 

“ Peace ! ” 

He had too much compassion to allow her to continue. 


STILL WATERS. 


219 


He was very pale and tears were standing even in his eyes. 

“I understand you without words, my dear friend,” he 
said tenderly. “You are” — 

“But what have I done? What shall I — ought I — to 
do ? ” cried Clara, through her tears. 

“You have done and are doing quite properly,” said 
Sedgewick, approvingly. “No harm can come from this 
waiting. It has not been so very long as yet. Be assured, 
Clara, that God keeps ever in his care such worthy children 
as yourself. It will all come right in the end.” 

“But when? I no longer can endure giving this pain. 
1 am wounding the tenderest of fathers, and cutting Manley 
to the heart by my seeming unkindness.” 

“No, not so bad as that,” said Sedgewick, encouragingly. 
“ I will telbyou what you shall do, if you feel so inclined.” 

“Yes?” said Clara, brightening. 

“ Let me be your friend — be assured that I will be so 
heart and soul ! And ” — 

“I am assured!” warmly put in Clara, wondering at the 
strange expression which had briefly transfigured Orlando 
Sedgewick’s colorless face. “I am already assured of your 
friendship ! ” 

“ Then let me take this matter in charge for you,” said 
he, smiling. “ I pledge you my word to do nothing to 
cause you regret, and I will take no important step without 
first consulting you. Are you content to leave the matter 
in my care for a few days ?” 

“Indeed I am,” said Clara, gratefully. 

“ Then,” said Sedgewick, rising ; “return to your home and 
keep up a brave heart until we meet again. It shall be before 
long. I promise you that I will, in so far as lies in my power, 
stand between you and whatsoever evil may threaten. I 
promise you that I will unselfishly devote my highest sense 
of manhood and wisdom to your happiness and welfare.” 


220 


UNION DOWN 


The words were simply spoken, but the promise, com- 
ing from such a man, had a wealth of meaning. How 
little Clara Clavering realized the actual depth of its 
significance ! 

And what of him? Had he bound himself by a chain 
which in honor could not be severed ? 

Clara, with tears in her eyes, would have essayed to 
thank him, but he gravely restrained her; and, pleading the 
lateness of the hour and his consideration of those with 
whom he was at present making his home, as causes for an 
abrupt departure, he hastened away to join the Wiseacre 
family at dinner. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE PAST. 

Orlando Sedgewick ate sparingly at dinner that day, 
and that of which he partook was forced down his throat 
from a sense of duty. No sooner was the meal ended than 
he retired to his room and closed the door, and not until 
the lively jingle of Mrs. Wiseacre’s supper-bell was heard, 
first at one entrance of the house and then at the other, did 
he emerge from his chamber, and from the long and pro- 
found consideration in which he had been buried. 

As will soon be revealed, his position was not an enviable 
one, nor his duty easy of discernment. But the court of 
inquiry which he that afternoon had held in the solitude of 
his chamber, a court wherein he had severally served as 
accuser, examiner, defendant and judge, conscientiously 
striving to perform each and every function uprightly and 
in accordance with that divine rule to which he essayed 
habitually to cleave — this court of inquiry was not without 
result. Sentence had been passed, and execution only 
remained. At least, so he had decided. 

But Orlando Sedgewick had overlooked one possibility — 
that the evidence was not all in. 

Shortly after sunset he was standing alone outside the 
house, when Naomi, uninformed of his whereabouts, came 
out in pursuance of a household duty — cleaving to real- 
ism, in order to shake the table-cloth. She drew back a 

221 


222 


UNION DOWN. 


little when she saw him, but, seeing also that she was 
observed, she adhered to her first intention. 

Sedgewick at once approached her, saying gravely : 

“It is very pleasant at this time of day, Miss Naomi. 
Will you join me in a short walk when you are at leisure ? ” 

A look of distress at once showed in her face. 

“ I am very sorry to be obliged to decline,” she answered 
tremulously; “but another duty constrains it.” 

“Another duty? Would you otherwise consider compli- 
ance with my request a duty?” he asked sadly. 

“ Pardon me, I did not mean precisely that,” Naomi 
replied, turning quite pale ; then, as if from a resistless 
impulse, she drew nearer to him, looking him in the eyes 
and adding in hurried, almost desperate, appeal : “ Do not 
think me ungenerous, unkind ! Do not think me blind to 
the motive which prompts your every kindness. I am 
not — indeed I am not! I see it daily and hourly, and I 
am crushed by grief ! I know what you would say, what 
you would ask ; but, oh, Mr. Sedgewick, it cannot be ! 
Believe me, trust me, it cannot, shall not — must not be!” 

The words poured from her trembling lips as if in a sub- 
dued frenzy of desperation, and Sedgewick, eager though 
he was to assuage her evident stress of feeling, could not 
find words to reply. With breast heaving, and eyes 
strangely bright and tearless, Naomi turned abruptly and 
hurried from him, as if not for a moment longer could 
she endure a witness of the real grief she so was striving 
to hide. 

Orlando Sedgewick walked slowly away across the fields. 

“A barrier at the very outset,” he muttered sadly, gazing 
fixedly at the ground as he moved. “ What can it mean ? 
Am I so distasteful to her, that she repels so feelingly my 
every attempt to disclose my heart ? I can hardly believe 
this, for she speaks too of generosity, of kindness, and of 


ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE PAST. 


223 


gratitude. What then? If she would only reveal herself 
more clearly, confide frankly” — 

He stopped abruptly in his tracks, his face suddenly 
grown ghastly. That word “ confide” had appealed to his 
mind with a new and dreadful significance. 

“Can it be?” he muttered, with terrible hoarseness. 
“Merciful God! can it be? Ten thousand curses light 
upon him if it is so! Pity — mercy — I would be dead to 
the mercy I had thought I could bestow ! Crushed by her 
grief? Did she mean — God! he is capable of it! But she 
— faugh! I am alarmed by an unworthy shadow.” 

For a moment, while he stood hoarsely voicing these 
disconnected phrases, he appeared like a man transmuted into 
stone. His features were appalling in their vengeful stern- 
ness; his eyes blazed like the eyes of a Nemesis. Yet with 
those last words his countenance softened, and a blush like 
that of shame rose over the paleness of his cheeks. He 
walked on again, like a man returned to reason. 

Heedless whither his steps were taking him, he soon 
found himself again in the neighborhood of the village 
churchyard, observing which he again halted, this time to 
gaze inquiringly around. 

“Let me see,” thought he. “Naomi said this woman 
lives near the beach. Which will be the easier and nearer 
way ? ” 

The deep calm of the early evening was all around him. 
It was that indescribably peaceful moment between daylight 
and dusk. The surface of the distant bay was rippleless, 
and mirror-like reflected the crimson-kissed clouds of the 
western sky. The beach was a half-mile or more away. 

“I can cross the churchyard,” Sedgewick thoughtfully 
continued ; “ and so gain the highway. The course will then 
be plain.” 

He now strode on more rapidly, crossing the adjoining 


224 


UNION DOWN. 


field and approaching the fence which marked the boundary 
of the churchyard. The scene that morning with Clara was 
now uppermost in his mind, and the duties upon which he 
had that afternoon decided now impelled him. As he 
neared the fence, he glanced toward the solitary grave in 
which, for more than twenty years, had reposed all that -was 
mortal of Kimball Allen — - and he stopped short, surprised 
by what he beheld. 

Seated alone in the falling dusk, seated on the low, grassy 
mound, was the figure of a woman. She had not observed 
him. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her eyes were 
fixed upon the ground at her feet. Her face was toward 
him. It was the face of the woman whom he and Naomi 
had encountered a few evenings before — the face of Mar- 
garet Dawson. 

Sedgewick remained motionless, watching her for several 
minutes. 

“ So,” mused he ; “ she whom I was about to seek is here. 
My imaginings have not been far out of the way. It is she 
who comes daily to leave there that token of memory 
and affection. Is it possible that I am wholly in the 
right ? ” 

The woman moved. She breathed a long sigh, wiped 
her eyes with a handkerchief, then slowly arose to her feet. 
She appeared strange and uncouth in the twilight and amid 
her surroundings. Placing a flower on the grave, she started 
to move away — and now saw, against the fading glow of 
the west, the tall figure of a man, standing with head uncov- 
ered, motionless, gazing toward her. 

She recoiled instantly, like one alarmed, but quite as 
quickly would have continued on her way; when Sedgewick, 
laying a hand upon the fence, cleared it at a bound and 
stood directly in her path. 

Margaret Dawson uttered a low cry of surprise. 


ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE PAST. 


225 


“Do not allow me to disturb you,” the other hastened to 
say kindly. 

“ Disturb me ? ” she replied, her grim face flushing slightly 
and her eyes beginning to glow. “You cannot now disturb 
me, sir. I was about to depart.” 

And so indeed she again seemed about to do, when some- 
thing in the man’s face compelled her to pause, and she 
demanded abruptly : 

“ Why do you look at me like that ? ” 

“ Because,” gravely replied Sedgewick, who had been 
steadily regarding her ; “you attract me to you. You are 
the lady who daily leaves the flower yonder,” and he pointed 
to the grave from which she had arisen. “ May I ask you 
why ? ” 

Margaret Dawson colored deeper at his words, spoken in 
a tone of mingled pity and respect. 

“ Why do you ask ? ” she demanded suspiciously. “ Why 
do you seek to intrude upon the grief of a stranger — and 
that stranger a woman ? Should not idle curiosity re- 
strain its inquiry at the brink of the grave ? ” 

“ Idle curiosity — yes,” was the somber rejoinder. “ But, 
believe me, I am actuated by a loftier and holier motive.” 

“ Indeed ! And pray, then, who are you ? ” 

“ I am called Orlando Sedgewick.” 

“Orlando Sedgewick.” 

“ And I am a stranger in this town.” 

“A stranger,” repeated Margaret Dawson, looking at him 
as if through his deep, grave eyes she would read his very 
soul. “ Strangers can have no worthy interest in me — or 
in him / ” 

“ Pardon, but I have such an interest,” said Sedgewick, 
simply. 

“ You have ? Do you know the story of the man who 
lies there ? ” 


226 


UNION DOWN. 


“ I know what rumor says.” 

“ Rumor ! ” cried Margaret Dawson, with intense bitter- 
ness. “ Rumor is a liar ! Do not facts become crooked 
and misshapen by the mouthings of twenty years ? I can- 
not gratify your curiosity. I beg that you will not mention 
having seen me here.” 

“ I shall respect your request too profoundly to do so. 
But again I tell you I do not ask from idle curiosity.” 

Subdued eagerness was betrayed in his earnest voice, 
and again Margaret Dawson regarded him with suspicious 
eyes. 

“ It is too late, sir, to think of legal justice,” she at length 
said. “I think I know you, now — you are a detective.” 

Sedgewick smiled for the first time and shook his head. 

With the smile, a change crossed the woman’s face. It 
had been flushed and grim; now it had softened, and was 
as pale as death. Tears w'ere starting to her eyes and her 
lips were trembling. 

“ It is a long time since a man has spoken to me as you 
have spoken,” she said sadly. “ Promise me that you will 
keep my secret and you shall have it.” 

“ I promise to respect your every confidence,” gravely 
answered Sedgewick. 

“That is enough — coming from you,” said Margaret 
Dawson, oddly. “You will know soon why I trust you. 
Come and sit here, and I will tell you why I am what I 
am.” 

She led the way to the low mound of earth and sat down 
upon it. Sedgewick followed, and seated himself by her 
side. 

They were alone — save that, from beyond that invisible 
portal called death, there perhaps was a third hearer of 
Margaret Dawson’s words, when she drew aside the veil 
from the past and revealed the story of his life and hers. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 

“ I was not always what I now appear. My life has not 
been wholly shaped by that purpose which, for the past 
generation, has actuated me. Years ago my home was in a 
small town some miles from the city of New York. At the 
age of sixteen I was left an orphan. I had but few 
friends ; and, save a sister aged four, I had not to my 
knowledge a relative in the world. Sixteen is an early 
period of life at which to assume such duties as I found 
imposed upon me.” 

Margaret Dawson had clasped her hands about her 
knees, and, gazing fixedly at the ground, was speaking in 
that intense, jerky manner which indicates an aiming at 
precision. 

“So it is, indeed,” assented Sedgewick, so gently that 
she did not hear him. 

“ Yet for that sister’s sake,” she continued ; “I assumed 
those duties bravely and cheerfully. I became to her both 
mother and sister, devoting myself exclusively to her hap- 
piness and welfare. I had but little money, a small legacy; 
but I had health and strength, and, if I may say so, courage. 
I went to work at once, and by my labors supported and 
educated my growing charge. By careful economy we got 
on well enough for nearly a dozen years. She was then 
sixteen and I was nearly twenty-eight. That you may better 

227 


228 


UNION DOWN 


appreciate what followed, I must refer briefly to our affec- 
tion for each other.” 

“ Do so ; I will listen,” said Sedgewick, speaking with an 
effort which did not escape the woman’s observation. 

She gazed strangely at him for a moment, then absently 
laid her hand upon his arm. She knew that she was speaking 
of one most dear to him. 

“We were more than sisters during those years. Two 
girls, left alone in the world as we were left — the one 
dependent on the other, the other proud of her matronly 
responsibility — become more closely attached than by the tie 
of kindred alone. And I was indeed proud of my child 
Marion ! ” cried Margaret Dawson, her hand closing with 
augmented fervor on Sedgewick’s arm, her eyes beginning 
to glisten tearfully in the falling dusk. “Never was true 
mother prouder, fonder, more devoted than I. I have no 
words to tell you how tenderly I guarded and watched her, 
guiding her steps from childhood to girlhood, and striving 
to inculcate in her all those qualities of true nobility which 
had been my own mother’s teaching. Sir, we were all 
the world to each other during those years of our lives ! ” 

“ I can easily believe so.” 

“ It was at about this time, when Marion had reached 
the age of sixteen years, that our associations were changed. 
I brought about this change — heaven forgive me for it! 
But for that, we might never have been parted, might never 
have known the misery of subsequent years. But I was 
proud of my duty, thus far so unselfishly performed, and 
proud of the beautiful girl whom I had reared to early 
womanhood. She was rarely beautiful, with her perfect 
figure, her fair face and fine, expressive eyes; so beautiful 
that I guarded her with more than ordinary care from 
worldly snares, even though I did not know mankind as I 
know it now. Her education in the local schools was 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


229 


completed, and I, in my love and pride, was saving every 
possible dollar that her wish to continue her studies by a 
collegiate course might be gratified. It was at this time 
that I had an opportunity to accept in New York a more 
lucrative position than that by which I thus far had sup- 
ported ourselves. I at first declined. Marion and I had 
never been parted. I could not bear to think of separation. 
But the plan upon which we had determined, for which we 
had saved and labored so assiduously, the plan that she 
should enter a seminary for some four years, decided me. 
In such course our separation , was unavoidable. The dis- 
tance of a few miles could not make much difference. 
I saw the means of aiding my sister through her studies. 
I accepted the situation in New York.” 

“And your sister entered the academy?” 

“The same day that I went to New York,” said Margaret 
Dawson, slowly. “Though our separation was painful, a 
year passed without event. I was busy at my employment; 
Marion equally so at her studies. We corresponded regu- 
larly and met whenever circumstances permitted. Indeed, 
we congratulated ourselves that we were doing so nicely. 
I had been a year in New York,” and here Margaret 
Dawson’s voice fell to a tone of subdued intensity; “when 
I met the man whom I soon after married. Do not imag- 
ine that I shall descant upon my love, upon the motives 
which led me to accept the hand of” — 

She stopped abruptly, rising to her feet, and pointed 
down at the mound of earth on which she had been seated. 

“Can you not imagine, now, who lies there?” 

She was shaken by the very earnestness of her question. 
Sedgewick looked up at her face. It was pale, as if blood- 
less, and her lips were quivering. 

“Your husband ?” 

He half arose as he spoke, but Margaret Dawson pushed 


230 


UNION DOWN. 


him back by the shoulder and resumed her seat by his 
side. 

“Yes, my husband,” said she, in little more than a 
hoarse whisper. “The man who, according to the story, 
died twenty-odd years ago, of neglect, in an obscure New 
York lodging-house ! I will tell you how that came about. 
I know his story as gossips tell it; I know what Marcus 
Wiseacre says of him and of his past. Let me tell you the 
truth ! ” 

Sedgewick felt his blood chill, so intensely bitter were 
these last words. 

“ It matters not when and where I met this man, or how I 
came to love him. It matters not if I saw in this marriage 
the betterment of my condition. Had I not truly loved 
him, I had never married him. Our wedding was a private 
affair. We went to a clergyman and were married. I had 
only a sister to inform of my intentions; my husband, a 
very reserved man, had no near acquaintances save his 
partner in business. I did not wish my sister to absent 
herself from school for the period of a few days even ; my 
husband’s partner, so it was then affirmed, could not 
absent himself from their business. I afterward learned 
that they, though joined by mercantile relations, were far 
from being good friends. So it occurred that our wedding 
was thus private.” 

“And this partner?” said Sedgewick, inquiringly. 

“Wait.” 

The woman partly raised herself from the grave and 
gazed searchingly in all directions. There was no one in 
sight, no intruder upon their privacy. The dusk of the 
evening was deepening into darkness, and one by one the 
stars gleamed forth from the purple dome of sky. 

When Margaret Dawson again turned to Sedgewick, 
directly facing him and resting both her hands upon his 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


231 


knee, her features had become set in an expression of 
almost vengeful sternness, and her deep eyes seemed to 
glow under this burning recollection of by-gone days. 

“ Before I speak of the partner,” she continued with 
bitter emphasis ; “ I must tell you of my husband, tell you 

what the brief period of six short months revealed. 
Though my disclosure must seem hideous enough, never 
doubt that my husband always meant to be kind and gentle 
and affectionate ; but, alas ! he was equally weak, and he 
was the victim of a curse which proved to be his ruin. 
Not until I had been married half a year did I learn the 
truth ; learn what his days of alleged illness meant, days 
when he absented himself from business and locked himself 
in the solitude of his chamber, days which became more 
and more frequent as time wore on. He was a dozen years 
my elder, and never for a moment had I doubted his word 
or his wisdom. How doubly shocking was the blow, then, 
when I learned that he had deceived me, learned the true 
meaning of his ailments ; when I discovered to what demon- 
habit he had become the slave. My husband had yielded 
to the temptations of his daily surroundings, and had fallen 
victim to that most horrible curse — opium! He was a 
consumer of the frightful drug! He was an opium-eater!” 

The shudder which swept over Sedgewick, though 
observed by the woman, did not lead her to pause; she was 
now plunged with terrible earnestness into her pitiful tale. 

“ I will not dwell upon the horror which immediately 
filled me,” she continued. “ All that is now a thing of the 
past. Nor will I weary you by depicting the many, many 
gentle methods by which I strove to redeem my husband 
from his appalling habit. That his remains are lying here 
beneath us, that I am sitting here, a wreck of what I might 
have been, declare how vain my every endeavor proved. 
No, no ! ” cried she, for Sedgewick seemed about to speak; 


232 


UNION DOWN. 


“do not offer pity, sympathy; not yet — not yet! Have 
patience, and hear me to the more terrible end! ” 

And Orlando Sedgewick bowed his head without a word. 

“ My husband’s habit gained steadily upon him. His 
horrible indulgences, when for days he would lie drugged to 
insensibility, became more frequent; and when I finally 
thought to rise to the requirements of the awful situation, 
and tried by force of will and threats to govern him, he 
resorted to a step I from the first had feared — he remained 
away from me and from his home. For days I would not 
see him, but, plunged in the very depths of woe, knowing 
too well the cause of his absence, I could only helplessly 
await his return.” 

“Horrible — more than horrible!” groaned Sedgewick, 
under his breath. 

“At length,” continued Margaret Dawson, scarcely hear- 
ing him; “I determined to appeal to his partner for aid. 
I called at their office many times, but nearly a month 
elapsed ere I succeeded in finding him, he being always 
reported out of town. And when finally I did meet him 
— it was for the first time in my life — I was well-nigh over- 
come by his ignoble conduct. He heard my pitiful story, 
but his indifference was an insult. I was fairly turned from 
my husband’s own office, humbled and more than ever 
crushed by my weight of woe.” 

Though Sedgewick did not speak, his bowed head, the 
strained twining together of his hands, the deathly paleness 
which had settled upon his face — all evinced some griev- 
ous distress. And Margaret Dawson’s glowing eyes never 
left his face ; that half-subdued intensity which had imbued 
her later utterances never wavered. 

“ I again tried by prayers and entreaties to redeem my 
husband, and again he promised to do better. I told him 
of my visit to his office, of my treatment there, and was 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


233 


informed that that only might have been expected ; that for 
a long time no friendliness had existed between his partner 
and himself. His pledges were now kept for a time. I 
know that he tried to keep them, know that he loved me, 
know that his repeated failures were due to weakness rather 
than to viciousness. I encouraged him by loving argu- 
ments, appealed to him for the sake of our unborn child, 
and for a time he continued to be the husband I at first 
had known. Summer was at hand, and one day in June he 
came to me and said that he believed a brief absence in the 
quietude of the country, away from the cares of business, 
amid scenes entirely new, would quite restore him. I 
encouraged his going, believing that I was to accompany 
him. Alas ! that was not to be. He pleaded that he 
desired a complete change, that he was in so nervous a con- 
dition as to be unable to endure being with me during my 
anticipated illness; and he allayed my immediate suspicions 
by numerous vows and pledges, swearing a volume of oaths 
that he would not take with him an atom of the noxious 
drug which had become his curse. I constrain myself to 
important facts only. Having provided me with a compan- 
ion and nurse, he left New York, ostensibly to remain away 
for about a month.” 

“You heard from him during this time ? ” 

“ Regularly,” said Margaret Dawson ; “ and his letters 
led me to believe that his vows of abstinence were unbroken. 
My child was born during his absence, which was extended 
well into September; and, too, my sister visited me for sev- 
eral weeks. I concealed from her my terrible trouble, and 
she returned to her school the week before my husband 
arrived home. I can never forget the day of his arrival, 
my horror when I beheld him. The terrible truth declared 
itself in his glittering eyes and tremulous figure. I scarce 
need to name it — he had fallen again to the depths from 


234 


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which I so had striven to raise him ; his absence had left 
him free to his awful self-indulgences.” 

“ My God ! ” muttered Sedgewick, huskily ; “ can such 
things be?” 

“Worse things were! ” cried Margaret Dawson, in a tone 
which sent a shudder through her hearer. “ I tried to par- 
don him ; indeed, I did pardon him, for I knew his weakness. 
But for months I was too ill to forcibly control, or try to 
control, the habit which enchained him. I saw that he 
loved our child, that he was resolved to do better, and soon 
after his return he confided to me his plans for the future. 
He had, while absent, purchased quite a tract of land, and 
had taken steps for building thereupon. Yonder is the 
place,” and Margaret Dawson pointed through the darkness 
toward the house on the bluff. 

“ He had determined to close his business affairs during 
the winter, retire upon his present fortune, alienate himself 
from the past, and devote himself to a worthier future. 
Again I was rejoiced and encouraged by his earnestness of 
purpose ; and, though he still had spells when the habit con- 
quered, I clung for more than eight months to my re-awak- 
ened hopes. In the following April, another and an equally 
terrible blow was dealt me. I received a letter from my 
sister, informing me that she had left her school, that she 
had become enamored of a gentleman whom she had met 
in New York, that months before at his solicitation she had 
secretly married him, and that she then was living with him 
in a home of their own. She expressed in grievous terms 
the injustice done me, her overwhelming shame, and begged 
that I would try to pardon and think kindly of her, and, too, 
make no effort to discover her whereabouts.” 

“You did make such an effort? ” 

The words were hardly audible. * 

“ I did make the effort, but my labor was in vain.” 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


235 


Orlando Se'dgewick had bowed his head in his hands. 
His figure was shaken by subdued emotion, but he showed 
no inclination to speak or to offer pity. Margaret Dawson 
was silent for several moments, then continued. 

“Perhaps you can imagine my feelings,” she said sadly. 
“Ignorant of Marion’s whereabouts, of her fate, even; over- 
whelmed by her deception, after what I had done and sac- 
rificed for her; powerless to communicate with her, and 
debarred by my illness and my maternal cares from actively 
seeking her ; burdened, too, by my husband’s miserable con- 
dition, I was driven well-nigh mad. Soon after, we left New 
York and came to this place, to the house on yonder bluff. 
My health had improved, I had regained much of my 
strength, and now, my husband being little better than a 
mental wreck of his former self, I determined to assert 
my wifely prerogative and take the reins in my own hands. 
Pie informed me that he had closed up his business affairs, 
and I was resolved to make a man of him again, if to do so 
lay in my power. I soon discovered how his previous sum- 
mer had been spent, the truth of which was not suspected 
here. He had lived here under an assumed name, which I 
was not unwilling now to retain, being eager to get away 
entirely from the past ; and here we took up life anew. By 
force of will I had my husband in subjection, and I — but, 
alas l why refer to my vain resolutions? They were 
founded upon sand. In less than a month, we could no 
longer call our own the very roof that sheltered us ! ” 

She paused for breath, but Sedgewick did not move. 
He remained with head bowed in his hands, breathing 
heavily, as if under a distress precluding words. 

“Do not ask me how this was brought about,” Margaret 
Dawson went on. “I cannot tell you. My broken hus- 
band could not tell me. For months, I had not fairly real- 
ized his condition, his mental incapacity, his utter inability 


236 


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to secure his rights in the business he had relinquished. 
He knew only that he had been wronged, led into agree- 
ments which he now could neither remember, understand or 
explain ; that he had been reduced to penury, swindled with 
open eyes — and this by his own partner, Randolph 
Clavering! ” 

Sedgewick was shaken like a leaf by the speaker’s 
intense and awful bitterness, yet he never moved from his 
position, never lifted his face from the hands in which it 
was hidden. 

“The very roof above us was not ours,” the woman con- 
tinued, in a tone of bitter resentment. “We were turned 
from the house my husband had built, driven thence by 
threats which I fear, alas ! were not wholly groundless ; 
for, if Randolph Clavering had done this evil in malevolence 
and avarice, he had done his work well. Resistance was 
worse than useless; it courted disgrace only in a new local- 
ity. I returned to New York with my child and husband, 
the latter now upon the very brink of insanity. I appealed 
to his former legal advisers for aid, expressing my firm con- 
victions and stating the few deplorable facts of my case. 
Alas! there was no redress. If such a wrong had been 
done, it had been so knavishly accomplished that, with my 
husband in his helpless condition, there was no alternative 
but to let the matter rest pending his recovery. His 
recovery!” cried the woman, with intense scorn. “He 
had been beyond recovery for months ! ” 

“Wait one moment.” 

Sedgewick, as he spoke, his deep voice sounding strangely 
dry and hollow on the soft Evening air, raised his head from 
his hands and revealed a face that might in its paleness 
have been the face of a dead man. Margaret Dawson 
looked at him with a feeling of awe. 

“ I have already heard portions of this pitiful tale,” con- 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


237 


tinued he; “and I would spare your taxing yourself by 
needless recital. Did not your husband die some two 
months later in New York?” 

“Yes; while I, prostrated by my terrible experiences, lay 
ill of fever.” 

“ How came it that he died alone and under the circum- 
stances reported ? ” • 

“ He escaped a man whom I had employed to care for 
him and watch him, for I did not wish to consign him to an 
asylum. You may readily imagine what followed. He 
died of neglect, of starvation, indeed ; he died in solitude of 
his own seeking; he died steeped in the drug which so long 
had been his master.” 

“Can you imagine why he desired to be buried here ?” 

Margaret Dawson laughed bitterly. 

“Not imagine — I know!” she cried grimly. “In his 
periods of semi-madness, I had heard him mutter the 
thoughts which inspired such a design, when he realized 
that he might die in his debauchery. He wished to be 
buried here, that this grave might, so long as Randolph 
Clavering occupied the house on the bluff, be ever near 
him, a silent reminder of his infamy. I did not immediately 
learn that my husband was dead. I still believed him to 
be alive in New York. I did not know that his remains 
were here ; that Randolph Clavering and Marcus Wiseacre 
had been in New York — the former easily and knavishly 
blinding the latter to the means by which he might have 
solved a mystery which was no mystery at all. My hus- 
band and I never met Randolph Clavering in Boston. Not 
a dollar was paid to us by this man, and the advertisement 
in the Boston paper must have been inserted by the knave 
himself. He never appealed to the police of New York. 
He dared not. It was an easy matter for him to hoodwink 
simple Marcus Wiseacre, and so permit the seemingly 


238 


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strange affair to die a natural death. But I was ignorant 
of these things, I say, when I came here again in Septem- 
ber, after my recovery..” 

“And then it was that you saw” — Sedgewick stopped, 
for Margaret Dawson "had abruptly caught him by the 
wrist. 

“Yes — then!” she cried, catching up his words with 
augmented earnestness. “ Then it was that I learned that 
which turned me from my purpose ! I had returned, not to 
appeal to him, but to denounce him, to disclose him to the 
world in his true colors, to charge him with the crimes of 
which I felt assured, yet could not legally prove ! I faced 
him first in yonder house — my house ! As fate would have 
it, this proved best. I charged him with his infamy, with 
his guilt. I went to the very bottom of the facts of which 
I perhaps alone felt certain. I denounced him as a coward, 
a knave, a criminal. I affrighted him by my violence, as 
well as by the keenness of my discernment ; for, whiter than 
death, and with guilt crying out in every lineament of his 
ghastly features, he reeled against the wall, after his vain 
attempt to stay my frenzied utterances. I was deaf to every 
sound save my own infuriated denunciation, blind to all 
save the guilt-revealing face of the man before me ; yet I 
saw the horror of his ghastly countenance redoubled, saw 
his bloodless lips move in a vain effort to speak two words 
— ‘ My wife ! ’ His affrighted eyes were bent upon the door 
behind me. His wife! Was there a woman in all the wide 
world who would sustain him in his infamy ? who would 
deny the guilt in his hueless face? I wheeled about in all 
my stress of rage and indignation and sense of injustice 
done me; and I beheld — the sister whom I had not seen 
for more than a year ! ” 

Tears were streaming down Margaret Dawson’s cheeks 
and Orlando Sedgewick was sobbing like a child. 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


239 


“ His wife ! She was his wife ! ” the former continued, in 
grief which through a generation had not waned. “ She — 
the child whom I had reared, for whom I had toiled and 
labored and spent my best part of life, whom I had loved 
better than life itself — she was this man’s wife! Oh, God 
above! how did I live through that moment? I fell back 
from before her, recoiled from her white face, a face from 
which horror, fear, and shame and pride, cried out in mute 
but awful accents. She had overheard my every word. I 
could not speak, but she demanded wildly, were they true ? 
I pointed to the shrinking man before us, but I know not 
what I said. To-day it is like a dream, a hideous night- 
mare. My mad utterances must have roused my sister’s 
spirit, for she checked me in anger and resentment, and 
went to put her arm about her husband’s neck. Like a 
flash the past swept before me, my years of care and affec- 
tion; and what then seemed like her ingratitude severed all 
those bonds of kinship which, in spite of all, I should have 
respected. I know not what I said, know not in what 
terms I denounced her; but I know that I beggared words 
in my censure and upbraidings, and then I fled like one 
demented from the house and the town. From that hour, 
I never have laid eyes upon my sister’s face.” 

The woman’s voice softened with these last words, and, 
overcome by grief no longer to be restrained, she gave 
way completely to tears and bowed her head in her hands. 
Great suffering is doubly hard to bear when borne alone. 
Her lips had been sealed upon the past for more than 
twenty years. 

For several minutes Sedgewick did not speak, but in 
silence permitted her to weep herself to calmness. That 
deathly paleness still lingered in his face, and his features, 
though drawn and haggard, were preternaturally calm. The 
evening had advanced and the air was becoming chilly. 


240 


UNION DOWN. 


He gently drew the bowed woman’s faded shawl higher 
upon her shoulders, and, with the action, said gravely: 

“I am told that your sister soon after deserted Randolph 
Clavering. Do you know why she did so ? ” 

Margaret Dawson gave him a look of piteous appeal. 

“ 1 do know why,” said she, in a voice tremulous with 
feeling; “or, at least, I should. I felt that I knew why, 
when, three months after its occurrence, I was informed of 
the event by a New York friend who was somewhat 
acquainted with the circumstances.” 

“ And your belief ? ” 

“My belief is founded upon a faith which, despite 
appearances, is still strong within me — faith in my sister. 
She must have discovered the truth of my charges against 
her husband, must have learned how this man had deceived 
her and wronged me. Her pride, her sense of justice, must 
have revolted against such infamy. Though a girl of inde- 
pendent spirit, she had not one vicious instinct, not one 
natural tendency to evil. I believe that the time came, 
when she felt that in honor she could no longer live with 
Randolph Clavering. I realized, then, how I had wronged 
her by my repulsive severity. I made every effort to dis- 
cover her, but my endeavors proved vain.” 

“And then ?” said Sedgewick, in a husky tone of inquiry. 

“Then?” 

Margaret Dawson looked at him with that expression of 
piteous appeal still strong in her glistening eyes. 

“Yes; what did you do then?” 

The woman’s face darkened abruptly, as if under swift 
resentment. Perhaps she looked for something from this 
man, which now should have appeared, yet failed. She 
recoiled slightly, then as quickly drew even nearer to him, 
and her reply, given in a subdued, vehement whisper, cut 
the still night air like the hiss of an angry snake. 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


241 


“What did I do? I framed the purpose which since has 
shaped my life ! Through the friend mentioned, in whom I 
could safely confide, I learned that Randolph Clavering was 
in New York. I learned that he was sadly affected by the 
blow dealt him by his wife; learned that his love for her 
was in truth the one redeeming quality of his selfish and 
ignoble nature. I learned that his efforts to discover her 
had been as fruitless as my own. I rejoiced over his pun- 
ishment, gloried in his grief. I now felt to understand the 
situation. He had thought to coerce his wife, to subdue her 
to his will. He did not know her; he did not know her! 
She never had married one believed to be a «knave, even 
though she had been led into deceiving me. I knew that 
her love for him had died the moment the truth was 
clearly revealed. I knew not where she was, or how many 
years might pass ere we should meet. I was in straitened 
circumstances, ill and broken bodily, and with a child 
dependent upon me. Hark you! Randolph Clavering 
had never seen my child, had seen me but thrice. I 
scorned appealing to his feeble sense of justice, but I laid 
a secret plan by which to regain my rights. By aid of my 
friend, who was also his, by false representations and 
earnest arguments, Randolph Clavering was influenced into 
adopting the child of the man whom he had so cruelly 
wronged ! ” 

“Then Clara Clavering is your -daughter ? ” said Sedge- 
wick, evincing no surprise. 

“Yes!” was the quick rejoinder. “Do you wonder that 
I could relinquish her to the care of such a man? Never 
doubt that I have guarded her daily and hourly from that 
moment. I remained in concealment for a time, till years 
so had changed me that I felt to defy recognition. I have 
watched my daughter grow in Randolph Clavering’s love, 
watched her become nearer and dearer to his aging heart ; 


242 


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I have waited patiently through years and years for the best 
moment in which to strike my final blow.” 

“ What blow ? ” queried Sedgewick, calmly. 

“That by which I have hoped to serve the ends both of 
vengeance and of justice,” Margaret Dawson answered, 
with severity now tinged by sadness. “ He is a changed 
man to-day, a broken man. Were I to strike at him now, 
the wreck would be complete. When Clara is most dear to 
him, when most he feels to need her — perhaps when he is 
lying on his death-bed and cries aloud to feel around him 
the arms which so long have sustained him and which he so 
has grown to love — then! then has it been my purpose to 
disclose the truth, to hold her from him in those last 
moments of his life, save that he would do her justice — 
and me ! ” The woman’s voice dropped abruptly : “ That 
purpose has died within a year ! ” 

“ Died ! died within a year ? ” said Sedgewick, marveling 
at the patience and determination of the character by his 
side. 

“Yes,” she answered mournfully. “Dead from the hour 
when I learned that Marion Clavering was dead, and that 
Manley Clavering was coming home. Do you ask why? 
Can you not guess why? I will tell you. Why should I 
not tell you ? I have no fear, no doubts, of Manley Claver- 
ing,” she continued, through a surging sob. “ I know, I 
feel here in my bleeding heart, what actuated my dear dead 
sister! Here in my heart I have all faith in her, all faith in 
Manley Clavering; faith that he has been reared in a full 
knowledge of his father’s sin, faith that his mother, my 
cherished sister whom I so harshly renounced, has reared 
her son in the light of truth and justice, and sent him hither 
to serve a righteous purpose. I tell you, sir, that I have no 
fears of Manley Clavering. I know that the wrong will be 
righted ! ” 


A LEAF FROM THE BOOK OF TIME. 


243 


Orlando Sedgewick had risen to his feet. His hands 
were crushed to his breast, as if by force only he 
could control the emotions which were rioting within 
him, 

“You have faith that Manley Clavering will right this 
wrong?” he cried, in tones that were choked and strained. 
“He has been at home for a year. Has he so much as 
made one effort to render” — 

Margaret Dawson interrupted him by springing to her 
feet with a wail of appeal. 

“Oh, sir, sir! be as frank with me as I have been with 
you!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Mean ! ” cried she, with tears streaming down her aged 
cheeks, and her trembling hands held eagerly toward him. 
“ Mean ! Do you think I would have confided this tale to 
one felt to be a stranger ? Have I not had good reason ? 
Have I not seen in your face her face — the face of my 
dead sister ! Are not your eyes her eyes ? your smile the 
smile I once loved so dearly ? Oh, I know ! my heart tells 
me that I know ! The man at yonder house is an impostor ! 
I knew that alone, when his conduct here allied him to 
Randolph Clavering’s past deception ! I know not why he 
is here, know not by what means he — oh, sir, sir! your 
tears alone would reveal you! Speak to me! In the name 
of God, tell me” — 

“ Peace ! ” 

With flooded eyes from which hot tears dropped one by 
one to his heaving breast, with features so pale and drawn 
that they appeared haggard, with his powerful figure shaken 
by an almost overwhelming emotion, Orlando Sedgewick 
laid both hands on Margaret Dawson’s shoulders and made 
answer. 

“You are right! Yonder man is an impostor! I am 


244 


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your sister’s child — I am Manley Clavering! Your faith in 
my dead mother, and your faith in my mother’s son, have 
not been misplaced ! If it lies in my power, the wrong 
shall be righted! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


NAOMI. 

To fairly appreciate the conduct of Naomi at this crisis 
of affairs, one must clearly understand the feelings by 
which she was animated, and the character and sentiments 
which gave those feelings birth. 

From her earliest childhood she had breathed the very 
atmosphere of simplicity and virtue. Lofty character, prin- 
ciple and purity, were not matters of pride among the 
Wiseacre family, but the natural instinct of its every mem- 
ber. They were unconsciously virtuous. So much as the 
faintest murmur derogatory of their purity and piety, would 
have driven each and every one of them to locking them- 
selves within doors and hiding their heads in humiliation. 
In their gentle simplicity they were quite incapable of that 
outward resentment of slander which characterizes the gen- 
eral world. 

And in Naomi, more perhaps than in any other, were 
this native innocence and modesty and meekness pre- 
eminent. She was the eldest of a large family of children. 
She had felt herself the one whom naturally the others 
would tend to emulate, and she had aimed always to keep 
herself worthy of emulation; which endeavor, also, had 
served to expand those fine qualities bestowed upon her by 
her benevolent and sensitive father, and her patient and 
deserving mother. She was sensitive to a fault, even. The 
slightest kindness awakened an immediate fear of inability 

245 


246 


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to repay. The most trivial unkindness shocked her to 
grief and silence. She was as ingenuous as a child, artless 
in her innocence, and her faith in others was unbounded. 
How deeply, then, when this faith was abused and these 
fine sentiments cruelly outraged, must she be wounded. 
How thrice deeply when the injury was of a character 
most repulsive to her perfect innocence and most sacred 
instincts ! 

There was a meeting of another man and another woman, 
during that hour when Orlando Sedgewick and Margaret 
Dawson sat upon the mound of earth in the sacred quie- 
tude of the country churchyard. The spot was not less 
secluded, and, save for the rippling of the waters on the 
sand, was not less quiet — down there upon the beach, where 
Naomi met by appointment the man whom we still shall 
designate by the name he had usurped. It was to this 
engagement, this duty, Naomi had referred, when Sedgewick 
invited her to join him in an evening walk. 

“ Well,” said Manley, tossing away his cigar as he neared 
her; “ I received your note requesting me to meet you here. 
What do you want?” 

He did not speak harshly — he never did; but there was 
something very like a subdued ring of defiance in his delib- 
erate utterance. He had approached her very much like a 
coward, and he looked like a coward now, as he stood with 
hands thrust into his pockets, doggedly watching her and 
waiting for her to speak. 

She was silent for several moments. She seemed unable 
to command her voice. His words had sounded cold and 
unfeeling to her; they were so, when compared to those 
which she had been accustomed to hearing from his lips. 
And he had kept her waiting there ; waiting his coming, in 
all her piteous distress of mind. It appealed to her with 
but one significance; which, when she remembered his close 


NAOMI. 


247 


friendship — a devotedness which had been remarked 
throughout the town and made the ground for many an 
innuendo and prediction — wounded her beyond telling. 

Pale, and with trembling lips and timid eyes, she leaned 
heavily against the boulder by which she had been waiting 
through the long hour from sunset until dusk. 

The motives actuating Manley Clavering’s intimacy with 
Naomi may only be imagined. Looking at him now, stand- 
ing motionless a dozen feet away, half abashed, half defiant, 
so wearied of her that he had found it in his heart to 
abruptly forsake her, and now could coolly ignore those 
sentiments which had driven her to asking this interview, 
one might well imagine that he had found her too pure in 
her simplicity, too firm even in her gentleness, to longer 
administer to his pleasure. 

“ Well,” he at length repeated; “why don’t you speak? 
Why do you look at me like that ? What do you wish ? ” 

“Don’t you know what I wish, Manley?” she asked 
tremulously, still with that look of timid appeal in her dry, 
steadfast eyes. 

“How can I know, since you have not told me ?” 

“It is not easy for me to tell you,” said she, with pitiable 
earnestness ; then, when he remained persistently silent, 
regarding her with doubtful, half-frowning eyes, she contin- 
ued, like one constrained to speak: “I — I wish to know, 
Manley, why you have treated me so indifferently, so 
unkindly, during the past month. Have I done anything 
to offend you ? ” 

“Offend me?” questioned he, yet knowing full well 
what she meant. “Of course not. How have I treated 
you unkindly ? ” 

A look of pain, that he could ask such a question, shot 
across her face. 

“How, Manley?” she slowly replied, with an infinite gen- 


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tleness softening the reproach she found so hard of utterance. 
“ Have you not completely severed all of those relations by 
which we have been associated for more than a year?” 

“Relations — to be sure not! What do you mean?” 

“Yes, Manley, you have. Don’t you understand what I 
mean? Don’t you realize how friendly, how intimate, you 
have been with me, and how by idle tongues your name has 
been linked with mine?” 

“Idle tongues! friendly!” exclaimed Manley, drawing 
nearer, inwardly determined that the^whole business might 
as well be settled and ended then and there. “Are we not 
friendly now ? ” 

* “I hope so, I am sure,” said Naomi, with an indescribable 
helplessness weighting her heart and weakening her very 
limbs. “Yet you have not been near me for more than a 
month.” 

“Yes, I have,” cried he, discursively. “I took you out 
sailing less than a fortnight ago.” 

She evinced not the slightest indignation, not a shadow of 
that scorn of which he was so worthy ; but she now read 
him more clearly than ever, and a look well-nigh of despair 
swept to her white face. But not a sign of tears showed in 
her wide, troubled eyes, when the prospect she so had 
dreaded became more and more assured. 

“True — in company with others,” she faltered faintly. 

“Then don’t say I’ve not been near -you for a month. 
On my word, I don’t see what you’re driving at.” 

And though in truth he did see, and knew well enough in 
what way he had wronged her — a wrong which some women 
could have sustained with a disdain of current opinion that 
was quite beyond Naomi Wiseacre — he had not the man- 
hood to confess it, not the patience and consideration to 
right it in so far and by such means as easily were in his 
power. 


NAOMI. 


249 


He did not realize how deeply she was wounded by the 
current gossip of that rural community, gossip approaching 
slander, though he might have read it in her terrible pale- 
ness, in the changes which worry had wrought in her during 
thirty short days. 

He might easily have broken off with her a little less 
abruptly ; but that was opposed to his present pleasure, 
Clara being now his bent. As he had driven Naomi to ask- 
ing this interview, he now drove her to speaking plainly. 

“Then — then I will try to tell you,” she replied, with a 
sort of dazed look in her dilated eyes ; and what she said 
came from her lips like a lesson prepared and spoken by 
rote. “ I have been led into believing you loved me. I 
have been led into receiving your attentions to that extent 
which otherwise I could not have permitted. Up to a month 
ago, scarcely a day passed that you were not seen in my 
company. You now have deserted me completely, without 
so much as a word. You now pass my home frequently, 
which once you never did without entering. You utterly 
ignore me. Manley, do you realize to what all this has 
given rise ? ” 

“You tell me; you tell me,” he repeated bluntly. Yet he 
was more than half ashamed of himself, for not a touch of 
anger or resentment had sounded in her voice, only the pite- 
ous indication of a consuming inward pain. 

“ I will try to do so, Manley,” she continued. “ My name 
has been so associated with yours, that this abrupt and long 
estrangement could not but have its effect. I see the effect 
daily. I see it in the persons I meet upon the street. I see 
it in my sisters’ and my parents’ eyes. Though none speak 
of it to me directly, it nevertheless is common talk. Our 
estrangement has given rise to slander, and my name is in 
the mouths of men and gossips in such a way as to cause 
me to shrink in shame.” 


250 


UNION DOWN 


“Nonsense! you imagine” — 

“No, Manley, it is not imagination,” she interposed in 
that same pitiable strain. “ It comes to me through many 
channels. I cannot avoid it, however I may try. My 
humiliation, my grief, are more than I can bear. I know, 
now, that you do not love me — but it is not that!” she 
hastily added. “ I can forget that. I can rise above what- 
ever tenderness I may have had for you. But above shame 
and slander — I know not how! I have waited patiently, 
hoping you would call upon us ; hoping that, although you 
care nothing for me, you would at least consider our late 
relations, my position, my name and what is due me. You 
have not done so. You have ignored me so abruptly, so 
completely, that evil minds draw their own evil conclusions. 
More — they give them words. I could endure no longer 
the suspense in which I have been living. I could not 
longer await your pleasure. I — I only wish to know from 
your own lips if — if all is over between us.” 

He could not understand this delicacy of nature, this sen- 
sitive organism which, owing to its very gentleness and 
refinement, could neither sustain nor resent that slander 
which magnified itself to hideous proportions in her inno- 
cent eyes. 

He could only believe that she was seeking to retain that 
love, which, for the pleasure of an idle hour, he had affirmed; 
and that she would aim to constrain him to that step which 
he was egotist enough to feel would most redound to her 
welfare. Though determined to rigidly oppose this — and 
how outrageously he wronged her! — her terribly sad face 
and pleading eyes precluded his doing so too bluntly and 
harshly. He kicked seaward a stone at his feet, and asked 
indifferently : 

“ What would you naturally infer?” 

It was blunt enough and harsh enough for her. 


NAOMI. 


251 


Her cheeks turned paler than ever, and she shrank from 
him, standing coolly there in the deeper dusk of the quiet 
evening, shrank as if he had dealt her a blow. But not a 
tear was in her eyes. Her feelings were beyond tears ; were 
too deep and dreadful for the relief which tears might have 
afforded. 

Stung to shame which sent a crimson flush over the pale- 
ness of his face — shame of self, indeed, yet above whose 
individual ' interests he as yet was unable to rise — he 
approached her, quite shocked by her appearance* and 
gently laid his hand on her shoulder. 

“ Don’t look like that ! ” he cried impulsively. “ It’s 
impossible for me” — 

“ Do not touch me ! ” she interrupted, recoiling with a 
look almost of terror in her tearless eyes. “Your coldness, 
your heartlessness, tell me enough. I now am nothing to 
you. I am worse than nothing, since my presence, my very 
existence, is distressful to you. Oh, how could I ever have 
felt to love you — ever imagined you loved me !” 

“You’re wrong, Naomi!” cried he, quite alarmed by her 
terrible distress, and her equally terrible calmness. “ On 
my word, you’re wrong ! I do care for you ; I ” — 

“No, no; else you had never treated me like this, never 
brought this shame upon me. I have seen it, felt it; I 
should have known it. I do not reproach you — I cannot 
forget that I once believed I loved you. I only pity you — 
pity you, that you could be so ignoble, so unkind.” 

Manley Clavering was paler than ever. That easy self- 
possession which generally characterized him was quite 
wanting now. He, too, felt deeply troubled. He began to 
understand the girl before him. It would be extremely em- 
barrassing should Clara become informed of all this. He 
scarcely knew what to say or do. He did not like to feel 
troubled, did not enjoy such a scene^ as this, and that same 


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reckless indifference which had led him to ignore Nancy 
Brandon, had swayed him from the first with Naomi. 

“ I do care for you ! ” he at length repeated desperately. 
“I’m right sorry that you feel so badly and that things 
have come to such a pass. But what the dickens can I do 
about it?” 

Naomi, still with that terrible expression of despair in 
her hueless face, turned slowly away. She had not the 
heart, if he himself could not understand, to tell- him what 
he might do ; to tell him that he 'might for a time at least 
resume in a degree his former conduct, might at least sever 
their relations more discreetly. But Manley Clavering had 
no wish to understand. 

Yet he was more than ever shocked by her appearance. 

“Hold up a minute!” he cried impulsively. “I think 
you’re wrong to feel so, but on my word I’m sorry. What 
do you care for the gossip of these people ? It’ll all blow 
over in time. I know I’m to blame, I know that well 
enough ; and I’m right sorry for it, too. It’s a devil’s own 
mess, I’ll admit, since you desire it; but I don’t see what I 
can do. You see, father’s determined I shall marry Clara, 
and”— 

“Clara! Clara!” 

The name fell in barely audible whispers from Naomi’s 
dry and feverish lips. She had known nothing of such a 
design. This man’s conduct was taking on a blacker hue 
than ever. 

“Yes,” continued he, desperately shaking his head from 
side to side. “You see I want you to know just how I’m 
placed. She’s over head and ears in love with me, and — 
and”— 

“And you with her! ” 

This was all she said, but her very calmness affrighted 
him. His words, now, as well as his conduct, had told her 


NAOMI. 


253 


that all was indeed over between them ; had told her that 
she could not so much as hope for him to be seen as of 
yore in her company, or expect him to take the first step to 
dispel the evil done. It matters not if these feelings were 
in part due to a supersensitive nature and an easily moved 
imagination ; they were not the less poignant for that. He 
was in love with Clara, her friend, and she with him; 'and 
he had been, even when imposing upon her. She was left 
alone in a distress she knew not how to endure. What 
more had she to say, then, than those faint words — 

“ And you with her ! ” 

But their very calmness appalled him. They were 
spoken as if by one in a trance — as in which she indeed 
looked to be, gazing at him for a last moment through 
those dry, patient eyes. Then she swayed a little, as if 
faint or sick, her hands pressed to her breast, her face 
deathly white ; and her lips moved in an attempt to say 
“good-night,” or “good-by,” but she uttered no sound. And 
then she turned away from him — to go back to her home! 

Manley Clavering sprang toward her and caught her by 
the arm. 

“ Good God ! ” he cried affrightedly. “ Don’t look like 
that! Naomi, Naomi, pull yourself together! What’s the 
matter with you ?” 

“Let me go,” she said, in pitiful accents. 

“No, no, Naomi!” cried he, with feelings of which a 
moment before she would not have believed him capable. 
“It’s not so bad as this! not so bad as this! I’ll — I’ll 
do” — 

“ Let me go ! ” she moaned brokenly, absently, struggling 
from his grasp. “Shame — flight — death — oblivion — 
anything but this ! ” 

“ Wait ! wait! You shall not go till you have heard me ! 
I will do what is right! I will do — Naomi! look at me! 


254 


UNION DOWN. 


Think of yourself, your father, your mother ! Look at me, 
I say — and don’t look like that! Just hear me for one 
moment ! ” 

He ran along by her side while he spoke. Do him the 
justice to believe that he now spoke from his heart, that the 
best part of his nature had been touched at last, that he 
finally understood her as never before. 

Naomi stood before him for a moment like one in a 
dream, her hands absently thrusting him away; but her 
eyes were not upon him. They were turned over his shoul- 
der ; fixed upon the deep, darkening waters of the bay, far 
out from the shore on which they were standing; and they 
had in them that same awful light which Sedgewick had 
briefly observed, days before, aboard the yacht. 

“ My God ! Naomi, look at me ! ” 

The eyes wandered back to his. His tone seemed to 
have vaguely aroused something forgotten. Her reply was 
a vacant murmur. 

“Is it possible for you to be unkind — ignoble?” 

He recoiled with a groan and a shudder and covered his 
ghastly face with his hands. Her words and aspect had 
told him how exalted he had been in her esteem — and how 
low he had fallen. 

When he raised his bowed head, he was standing alone 
upon the shore. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 

“So this man, Wiseacre, was completely hoodwinked by 
my father.” 

“Yes; as well as all others hereabouts who took any 
interest in the event at that time. It was no difficult task 
for Randolph Clavering to deceive Marcus Wiseacre, and 
they together had the so-called investigation in charge.” 

“And you did not, as my Mr. Wiseacre imagines, see my 
father in Boston after leaving here ? ” 

“ I did not ; nor, after last leaving here, did I see him to 
speak to him for several years ; when, satisfied that I was 
changed beyond the probability of recognition, I ventured to 
take up an abode nearer my child. She was then seven 
years old, and I began to note the changes which were tak- 
ing place in Randolph Clavering — his gradual breaking 
down — and I bided my time.” 

It had become damp and chilly out in the open church- 
yard. At his suggestion, Margaret Dawson had permitted 
Sedgewick to lead her homeward. They had crossed the 
county road and were slowly following a diverging lane, 
which made toward that part of the shore near which the 
woman’s humble dwelling was located. It was at this time 
that the above conversation occurred. 

Margaret Dawson had regained her usual calmness, and 
easily kept pace with her companion. She could only guess 
why he accompanied her; would not question him; but 
awaited with patience whatever disclosure he might 

255 


256 


UNION DOWN 


choose to make. Not for a moment did she doubt him; 
not for a moment did she fear his purpose. Truth, man- 
hood, justice, every quality which evinces nobility of nature, 
had sounded in those words of his — 

“ If it lies in my power, the wrong shall be righted ! ” 

Yet his face was pale, his features strangely fixed and 
stern of expression ; and his voice, although so subdued as 
not to be by chance overheard, had a sound almost metallic 
in its hardness. Only at intervals did Margaret Dawson 
venture to look up at him, and never once did she find him 
looking at her, but always straight ahead through the even- 
ing gloom, permitting her to guide him toward her home. 

. Suddenly, just as her last recorded words were uttered, 
he paused and loosed the hold which he had taken on her 
arm. Somebody was approaching along the opposite side 
of the narrow way — a woman. She appeared — hurried 
by them — disappeared in the darkness. She came like an 
apparition; vanished like a ghost, moving as silently, 
almost as weirdly. But Sedgewick caught sight of a white, 
awed face, and two perfect hands, like hands of marble, 
pressed hard to the woman’s breast. 

His paleness, his look of sternness, became more marked; 
his eyes began to glow as if with a fire all their own. He 
had recalled the scene of the earlier evening ; recalled 
Naomi Wiseacre’s words and her appearance. Could Mar- 
garet Dawson have known his thoughts, his calmness must 
have awed if not affrighted her. 

“ Who was that ? ” she asked in a whisper, glancing over 
her shoulder in the direction whither the woman had 
disappeared. 

“Naomi,” said Sedgewick, simply. 

He did not speak again till they had crossed the thresh- 
old of Margaret Dawson’s door. 

The latter drew the curtain at the window, lighted a 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


257 


lamp, and tendered him a chair. Though he seemed to 
have no eyes for her humble circumstances, she murmured 
a tremulous apology. 

“Hush!” he said, somberly in reply. “You wound me 
indirectly. These things are mutely eloquent of your hero- 
ism. I have come here to talk to you. It is growing late, 
and what I have to say will require time. Sit down and 
listen.” 

He had drawn his chair to the common deal table in the 
middle of the floor, and now motioned her to one near by. 
The rays from the lamp fell full upon his face, augmenting 
its paleness, vivifying its terrible gravity. 

“I have come here to talk to you,” he repeated, resting 
his arm on the table and leaning toward her, his gaze fixed 
on her careworn face. “There is much to be said; some 
of the past, more of the present. The past was terrible ; the 
present may be scarcely less so.” 

And his thoughts were of Naomi and of Manley Claver- 
ing, the impostor; and his hand upon the table was 
clenched until the knuckles strained the tense white skin 
above them. 

“The present?” said Margaret Dawson, apprehensively. 
“The present terrible? How is it to be compared with” — 

“Of the past first,” interposed Sedgewick, in unvarying 
tones. “ Let me first speak of the past ; it will lead up to 
the present. As did you, I will confine myself to bare facts, 
leaving sentiment and kindred things to subsequent inter- 
views. In my early boyhood, even, I used to feel that there 
was a shadow upon my life. I now know what it was. It 
was a shadow of the cloud which had obscured my mother’s 
happiness. I learned of this when a lad of fifteen. I had 
arrived at an age of understanding and discernment, and 
my mother confided to me much that you have told, and 
some not in your power to tell.” 


258 


UNION DOWN. 


“You know not how I yearn to hear the latter!” cried 
Margaret Dawson, feelingly. 

“ I can imagine,” deeply answered Sedgewick. “ Listen, 
then, and you shall hear ! ” 

He drew his chair a little nearer, and, by the following 
disclosure, joined the broken past of these two sisters, 
world-separated for more than a generation — the one living 
still, under her burden of sadness; the other, dead for more 
than a year. Perhaps, through the invisible veil, the dead 
mother heard the words of the son, and was comforted — 
even as she was comforted, who sat and listened with head 
bowed and hands clasped and eyes slowly flooding with 
tears. 

“You were right, when you imagined that my mother had 
been deceived by the man she married. Separated from 
one in whom she might have confided during the earlier 
stages of her infatuation, a school-girl of scarcely eighteen, 
fond of society and those gaieties which had of necessity 
been denied her, my father, a prepossessing and wealthy 
bachelor, chancing to meet her in New York and following 
her to the town in which she was boarding, had little diffi- 
culty in winning her hand in marriage. He loved her! I 
am sure that he — but no more of that! It is a pity that 
his love did not equal his selfishness. He married her; 
and, save for the deception of you to which he influenced 
her, he married as pure and virtuous a girl as was she who 
deserved your faithful guardianship.” 

“ I never doubted that ! ” cried his hearer, in proud 
emotion. 

“Yet she deceived you, deserted you,” continued Sedge- 
wick, heedless of her remark. “ He led her to do so, 
deceived her as to the necessity. Not until the day when 
she saw you in yonder house, and heard what passed 
between you and my father, did she even vaguely dream of 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


259 


the existing outrage. As you have inferred, from that time, 
or from the hour when he was forced to confess to her that 
you were justified in your accusations, her love for him 
became an affection of the past. For three weeks she 
remained with him, his wife ; striving by prayers, and at 
length by threats, to induce him to make a just restitution of 
the property that was yours. He was deaf to her entreat- 
ies ; he disregarded her threats. She had no heart to give 
him to the law — he was still her husband, the father of her 
child. She was powerless, save to this extent : rather than 
endure life under such conditions, she could take me in her 
arms and leave him — and she did so.” 

Margaret Dawson was about to speak, but he silenced 
her with a gesture, and at once continued in that same 
intensely earnest strain. 

“The world and its battles were before her. She felt that 
she could not seek you, return to you — shame forbade it. 
She went first to Boston, where, almost immediately, fortune 
favored her desires. An opportunity presented itself by 
which she might go as companion and nurse of an invalid 
lady about to join her husband in China. She was eager to 
put the world itself between her and the scenes of her shame ; 
to hide forever from the terrible past and devote her future 
to the child in her arms. She accepted the situation offered. 
In less than a month from the day you so condemned and 
renounced her, my mother had resumed her maiden name of 
Wilson, and was upon the ocean.” 

“That is why my every effort to locate her proved vain,” 
said Margaret Dawson ; then, leaning eagerly nearer, she 
added wistfully : “ Please, sir, assure me here of at least one 
fact- — that she forgave me ! ” 

“ She found nothing in your conduct to demand forgive- 
ness,” warmly answered Sedgewick. “ Be assured you were 
often in her tenderest thoughts, Her love never waned.” 


260 


UNION DOWN 


“Marion — God bless her!” fervently murmured his 
hearer, wiping the tears from her dim eyes. 

“ Of these matters we will speak at length when better 
occasion offers,” Sedgewick went on. “ At present, my 
time is limited. I pass over my early life in China, where 
I was educated and grew to manhood. My mother’s dis- 
closure, the sorrow which had marred her happiness and 
made her the grave, gentle woman I loved so dearly, the 
knowledge of my father’s existence and of his sin — all had 
their effect upon me. Aside from those duties which 
demanded my daily observance, I became inspired by 
another and a single purpose — to rectify in the worthiest 
manner the wrong which had been done. Not, indeed, by 
seeking to arraign my father at the bar of legal justice, but 
by awakening him to a sensible appreciation of that divine 
law which he had outraged, and inspiring the voluntary res- 
titution of a repentant man. The desire to accomplish this 
became paramount — a desire encouraged in every way by 
my gentle mother ; and from the time I learned the truth, 
and began to dwell upon the duty which became me, this 
design has shaped my life. 

“For many years — in fact, until the death of both — my 
mother remained in the service of the gentleman and lady 
through whose instrumentality she had sailed for China. 
There the man’s business was located, and in his employ I 
was reared. After his death, the business descended to me. 
From that time my fervent wish, as well as that of my 
mother, was to return to the country from which she had 
departed ; I was already eager to essay the task I had 
assumed. By making inquiries of the many seamen who 
visited Hong Kong, in which city we were living, I finally 
discovered that my father still dwelt in this town, though I 
could learn nothing more concerning him, 

“ But this knowledge shaped my course. Encouraged by 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


261 


my mother, I set about disposing of my business ; which 
being accomplished, our purpose was to return to New 
England. Two years passed before 1 could succeed in mak- 
ing a fair sale of my property, and the transfer was only in 
the process of consummation when the blow came which 
precluded my further immediate action.” 

For the only time during his entire recital, Sedgewick’s 
voice wavered from its subdued intensity, and the fire which 
glowed in the depths of his somber eyes was dimmed by 
tears. \ 

“ The blow ? You mean” — 

“ I mean my dear mother’s death. Of the fever which 
swept many sections' of the empire, she was among the 
stricken. It came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky — so 
sudden, so unexpected. I cannot speak of it, or of her, 
now; save that on her death-bed she besought me to be 
true to her gentle teachings, true to that purpose which she 
had been proud to see so strong within me, and begged me 
to carry out the design we together had matured — that of 
returning to my father, and making an effort to locate you 
and to render justice.” 

Margaret Dawson had bowed her head to the table and 
was sobbing in silence. 

Sedgewick sadly regarded her for a moment, realizing 
how far, at best, he must come from justice. Then, as if sud- 
denly recalled to the fact that time was fleeting, he con- 
tinued, with that more ominous show of feeling which had 
marked the earlier parts of his recital : 

“That I am here, informs you that I have in part obeyed 
my mother’s request. That I still am eager to rectify, so 
far as I may, the injury done you, tells you that I have 
never swerved from my purpose. Though prostrated by 
grief over my mother’s death, I wrote to my father two 
months later, informing him of her decease, and of the fact 


262 


UNION DOWN. 


that she had expressed a wish that I would return to him. 
I then had only to complete the sale of my business, and I 
expected to sail for America the following month.” 

“Yet surely you did not do so, having arrived here only so 
recently ? ” Margaret Dawson had looked up at him in 
some surprise. 

“ No.” And Sedgewick’s somber voice seemed to set trem- 
bling the very air of the room, so swayed was he inwardly, 
despite his outward calmness. “ Ere the day of my intended 
departure arrived, I too was stricken ill. For nearly a 
month I hung between life and death, tortured by the dread 
that that hope which had become almost my mania was to 
be forestalled — the hope of being the instrument of turning 
my erring father to repentance and restitution. Alas ! the 
dread became to me a certainty. My physicians informed 
me that I had no possible chance of recovery. I believed 
I had none.” 

In his constantly augmenting earnestness, he drew his 
chair even nearer to his hearer. 

“ Now come those facts,” continued he ; “ which make this 
truth stranger even than fiction — the events which enabled 
yonder man to usurp my place. There had been for some time 
in my employ a man named Brandon, an American, a native of 
Boston. He was to have returned in my company, and was 
with me during my illness. As fate would have it, he too 
was ill, an invalid, in the latter stages of consumption. As 
a final resource, when I believed my death to be inevitable, 
I took this man into my confidence. I told him of the past 
and of my cherished aspirations. I dictated to him a long 
communication to my father, in which I imformed the latter 
of all that had occurred, and implored him, from what I 
believed to be my death-bed, to consider my mother’s pray- 
ers and my own. To Ben Brandon I intrusted the bulk of 
my small personal property, with instructions as to its 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


263 


disposal. To him I intrusted what I felt to be of far more 
importance — the plea which I had addressed to my father. 
I then commanded him to embark upon the first vessel to 
clear for this country. He begged that he might remain 
with me until I should have passed away. In reply, I sent 
him to the wharves. He learned that a ship was to sail 
the following day. Despite his entreaties, I commanded 
that he should be her passenger. I had no doubt of 
my early death, nor had he; and I feared that, unless he 
sailed at once, he too might fail to reach America alive. 
Under the circumstances, my will was imperative. And so 
it happened that I was left for dead in China, and Ben 
Brandon, with my trust in his charge, with my duty con- 
fided to his care, sailed for home ! ” 

Margaret Dawson was becoming pale. She was impressed 
less by the strangeness of the story, less by these 
successive disclosures and the truth she already had 
divined, than by the terrible and somber earnestness 
which imbued Orlando Sedgewick’s every word. It dimly 
betrayed the riot of feelings which had been so long sub- 
dued. It vaguely revealed the mighty reserve power dwell- 
ing in this grave and deliberate man. It evinced a will 
that seemed something more than human, and suggested 
with terrible vividness what might occur when he arose to 
ultimate action. If he aimed at vengeance, Margaret 
Dawson shrank from its contemplation even. 

As for Sedgewick, he was unconscious of unusual self- 
betrayal. 

“ Scarcely had the ship weighed anchor,” he continued ; 
“ ere my illness turned for the better. Contrary to all antic- 
ipations, I began to improve. I overleap all lesser issues — 
in a month I was again upon my feet, and in three I was a 
restored man. I then contemplated writing again to my 
father, but finally decided to wait and learn what effect had 


264 


UNION DOWN 


followed my endeavor already made. I could not write to 
Brandon, countermanding my instructions, for I did not 
then know his Boston address. I resolved to delay further 
action, pending my arrival in this country.” 

“ Now,” he went on, dwelling ominously over his words; 
“ leap with me a period of several months, to the day of my 
arrival in Boston. I learned where I might find Ben Bran- 
don, and that evening I went to seek him. I wished to 
know how my trust had been fulfilled — how my plea to my 
father had been received. You may imagine my surprise, 
not unmingled with dismay, when from Brandon’s wife I 
learned that he was not known to have arrived in Boston. 
I concealed my identity and my relations with him. I 
could not reveal to her my immediate apprehension, a possi- 
bility I could scarcely credit, yet neither could ignore — the 
possibility that Brandon had betrayed me, and was here in 
my place. This was not like him — not like a man in his 
condition ; but I felt that I must know the whole truth, 
ere I could act discreetly. I assumed a duty which was 
opportunely presented; and, unknown and unsuspected, I 
came, after brief consideration of the circumstances, to this 
place.” 

“ I can imagine the rest,” now murmured Margaret 
Dawson ; but Sedgewick did not heed her. 

“ On the very day of my arrival,” said he; “I was con- 
vinced of what I more than half had believed — Ben Brandon 
had died during his homeward voyage, and my trust, neces- 
sarily reposed in another, had been betrayed.” 

“ By the man who ” — 

“ By the man,” cried Sedgewick, fairly quivering in his 
chair ; “ whom you have known as Manley Clavering ! The 
man who has usurped my place. The man who, by con- 
nivance at my father’s sin, has outraged the purpose which 
inspired the death-bed communication which fell into his 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


265 


hands. A man whom I at once set down to be a cur, a cow- 
ard and a knave ! ” 

“ And so he is ! ” cried Margaret Dawson, with worthy 
indignation firing her eyes. “ So he is a cur, a coward and 
a knave! Why have you delayed? Why have you not 
denounced him ? Why have you not” — 

“ Because,” gravely interposed Sedgewick — and now, as 
he drew himself up with strangely sudden calmness, the 
light falling full upon his face revealed a countenance fairly 
transfigured by the spirit which inspired him — “ because I 
have been reared to aspire to something loftier than venge- 
ance, something higher than selfishness alone ! ” 

His very grandeur silenced her. 

“ I have seen somewhat of that unhappiness which sel- 
fishness may cause. We live but one life here below, at 
longest a brief one. Let us try, then, to live it nobly. To 
condemn hastily, to act in the heat of passion, is invariably 
to condemn unjustly and to act ignobly. It is because I 
have bred myself not to judge men by their acts alone, but 
to consider too their natures, their opportunities and educa- 
tion, as well as the circumstances inspiring their conduct — 
it is for reasons such as these that I have not denounced 
Manley Clavering.” 

“ But can his motives have been less evil than his conduct ? ” 
“ I do not know,” said Sedgewick, in thrilling tones. “ I 
have yet to know the man, yet to learn what first motive 
actuated him to commission of these errors. I have seen 
enough of him to discover traits of character worthy my 
profound consideration. The man who must have won Ben 
Brandon’s confidence could not outwardly have been a 
knave, nor could he have known of such an opportunity for 
fraud as was finally presented. I must know all the circum- 
stances ere I can pronounce judgment, ere I can totally 
condemn this man.” 


266 


UNION DOWN. 


“ What will you do ? ” 

“ First let me tell you what I expected to find here, and 
what I found. I expected to find the father whom my 
mother had described ; a man bent solely upon selfish grati- 
fication — the man she had deserted. Instead, I found him 
broken down by years, bowed by a weight of woe to which 
he had never had the courage to give expression — a man 
at length eager in heart to undo those wrongs which had 
wrecked his life and happiness ; a man filled with secret sor- 
row ; a man humbled by remorse, sustained by conscious 
repentance only, yet still constrained from confession by 
fears which he has not the courage to ignore. Do you 
wonder that I speak thus ? I have of late talked much with 
Randolph Clavering, and, though rigidly concealing my 
identity, I have talked with a purpose.” 

“ Do you mean ” — 

“I cannot at present inform you more precisely of my 
meaning. I feel assured, however, of what I have 
stated. And to him — to my father — this Manley Clavering 
has in many ways been a gentle and thoughtful minister; 
more so, possibly, than I myself could have been. If the 
day comes when I am forced to stand as his accuser, I will 
not forget this fact.” 

“You will be obliged to accuse him, to denounce him, 
since”— began Margaret D>awson; but Sedgewick, with 
unabated gravity and fervor, again interposed. 

“ I shall be obliged to take only those steps which most 
strongly appeal to my sense of justice, manhood and pro- 
priety. Do you, my friend,” and he leaned even nearer, 
his voice softened by a wealth of sadness and compassion ; 
“do you realize what this man has become to the girl at 
yonder house — to your daughter?” 

“You — you know of that, also?” faltered she, turning 
slightly pale. 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


267 


“Yes — -and how you have stood between her and the 
wrong you feared he might do her.” 

“That — that was my duty.” 

“True, it was your duty; the which,” added Sedgewick, 
warmly; “I truly believe you never to have wittingly set 
aside. But do you realize what Manley Clavering has 
become to your child ? ” 

“I know that she loves him,” Margaret Dawson answered 
simply, with tears rising again in her eyes. 

“ And do you know what love means to such a girl as 
she ? what love is to such a girl ? If the day comes when I 
am forced to sink yonder man to his true level, I shall stab 
your daughter’s heart so deeply that no ordinary skill will 
serve to check its bleeding. I know what has passed 
between you. She has appealed to me in this trial which 
burdens her; appealed to me in all the innocence of inexpe- 
rienced and trusting girlhood, and as a sister might have 
appealed to a brother. Do you realize how I am affected 
by such an appeal ? I were less than a man, if I were not 
so bound to her welfare and happiness, that no” — he 
stopped abruptly ; for Margaret Dawson, moved beyond 
containing by the infinite tenderness that was sounding in 
his manly voice, had broken forth in a flood of tears. 

‘ What is to be done? Oh, what is to be done?” she 
bitterly cried through her sobs. “ If her happiness de- 
pends on such a man as” — 

« Wait ! ” 

Sedgewick bent forward and gently laid his hand upon 
her shoulder. 

“What is to be done, cannot be determined here and 
now. There are too many issues to be considered ; the 
future of tpo many is involved. God knows, there has 
been enough of suffering. My knowledge must be more 
absolute, and I must see more clearly, ere I can feel 


268 


UNION DOWN 


to act wisely and justly. Are you willing to await my 
action ?” 

“Willing! ” The woman impulsively raised Sedgewick’s 
hand to her lips. “Oh, sir! — my dear, dead Marion’s 
son! — can you doubt that I, having seen and heard you 
thus, am willing? I repeat: I have all faith in my sister’s 
son, all faith in you ! I am overcome by these revelations, 
overcome by my present happiness. I am more than 
willing — I am eager — to leave the future to your care.” 

Sedgewick rose to his feet. 

“You maybe sure,” said he, gravely, yet in tones not to 
be doubted; “that I will honestly try to repair the past, 
and in that way, too, which shall seem best for the future. 
If Manley Clavering — but no more at present ! ” 

His countenance had darkened abruptly. There had 
leaped up in his mind the picture of a sad, pale face, dis- 
tressed beyond telling ; the face of the woman who had hur- 
ried past them in the gloom of the earlier evening; the 
face of the woman he loved. It had told of a suffering not 
to be given words ; a suffering imposed perhaps by the man 
who had usurped his name and station ; a suffering which 
yet might serve to harden even his unselfish heart and turn 
him from mercy to vengeance. 

Under the reawakening of his own distress, he could 
speak no further of the future. He bade Margaret Daw- 
son a hurried good-night, and, pale and haggard of counte- 
nance, he hastened out of the house into the midnight 
darkness, and moved away in the direction of the Wiseacre 
dwelling. 

He had scarcely departed, when a man, who for some 
time had been crouching beneath one of the windows, 
strode out into the lane before the house. No hour of the 
night was too late for John Godbold to be prowling about 
out of doors. Coming up from the yacht Clara, he had 


THE MAN HIMSELF. 


269 


chanced to observe Sedgewick and Margaret Dawson enter 
the latter’s dwelling. It had appealed at once to his 
instinctive suspicions. The window being closed, he had 
been unable to overhear what had passed between the two; 
but, between the curtain and the casing, he had viewed the 
scene in the room. 

He drew his own conclusions, not very accurate in truth, 
owing to his meagre knowledge of the events which had 
occasioned it ; but such as they were, they were quite ade- 
quate to spur him to immediate action. He hurried away 
through the darkness, not homeward, but back again toward 
the beach, and thence in the direction of the house on the 
bluff. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


MANLEY CLAVERING FINDS HIS LEVEL. 

It is essential that some men shall fall very low in their 
scale of self-esteem, before they can rise to that higher 
expression of which they really are capable. Debasement 
not unfrequently promotes unfoldment. 

In the semi-darkness in which Naomi had left him, 
Manley Clavering stood alone with head bowed in shame. 
She had left him with words to which he could make no 
answer, not even the plea of regret. She had departed 
with such a look upon her face, as, in the least susceptible 
of hearts, must have awakened the stinging bitterness of 
unalloyed remorse. 

The sweet silence of the summer evening was all around 
him. Not a breath marred the placid surface of the bay. 
The tide was flooding, and had covered the yellow sand 
flats; but the ripple of the waters upon the beach was in- 
audible. It was that ail-pervading calmness which brings 
mankind, of whatsoever station or degree, in closer contact 
with nature, in nearer communion with God. 

Minutes passed, yet Manley Clavering stood gazing at 
the ground before him. But his eyes were as vacant of 
expression as if his sense of sight was dead. His mind was 
turned inward upon memory’s pictured canvas, and he 
viewed again a portion of his past. Days by the berth of a 
dying man, days of unselfish devotion and fraternal care. 
A motionless ship on a silent Sabbath sea, and the mute 
farewell which had ascended from the passing dead to an 

270 


MANLEY CLAVE RING FINDS HIS LEVEL. 


271 


eternal resting-place. Days when temptation came and 
manhood wavered. And then the potent stream in which 
he had found himself, borne impulsively on, too lax of will 
to attempt to breast its sweeping, pleasurable current. 

“Unkind! Ignoble!” 

He drew his nether lip between his teeth, as he huskily 
repeated her parting words, and, raising his head, gazed 
after her. There was a look upon his face the like of 
which no man had ever seen there. Then he started as if 
to follow her, but she had disappeared, vanished in the 
gloom of the upland ; and he stopped short again, his eyes 
bent upon space, his hands hard clenched by his 
sides. 

He never knew how long he stood there, like a man lost 
in himself ; and when at length he moved, he merely turned 
slowly about and gazed with indescribable eyes, with inde- 
scribable face, toward the house on the bluff. 

“ What am I ! ” he soon began to hoarsely mutter in his 
throat, much as if his intensity of thought were forcing the 
words outward. “What am I, that I should deem myself 
worthy of her? of any true woman! What — what am I 
doing ! and what have I done ! ” 

The scene through which he had just passed, the reali 
zation of how keen a wound may be blindly dealt a sensitive 
and virtuous woman, the ineffable gentleness of Naomi 
Wiseacre’s rebuke, had finally awakened him to a profound 
consideration of his own ignobility. 

A shudder shook him from head to foot. He looked out 
across the sea, out across the endless expanse of water, out 
over nature in her most peaceful aspect. He looked up to 
the heavens, up to the countless worlds dotting the majestic 
dome of purple sky. And as he looked, and, thought of 
himself, on whom his mind was turned as never before, his 
refined and handsome features grew pale and drawn, his 


272 


UNION DOWN 


gray lips began to twitch convulsively, as if from the start- 
ing into life of some awful inward pain. 

“How — how insignificant I feel!” he faltered, in that 
hoarse, desultory way which betrayed such depth of feeling. 
“ A speck, a blot even, on the universe ! What am I, that 
I should have given birth to such pain! Was I sent into 
the world for no better purpose than to serve my own” — 

He ceased abruptly, binding his throat with his hands, as 
if to check the upward surge of blood, which was swelling 
the veins of his brow and distorting his drawn features. 

“Unkind! ignoble! God above! am I half as base as 
she forced me to feel, as she has driven me to” — He 
ceased again in the middle of his half-maddening utterances, 
and angrily shook his head, as if thereby he would dispel 
his bitter imaginings. 

Then, comparatively calm, he walked slowly up the 
beach; but his face was never more grave, never more 
deathly pale. 

“ By heaven ! ” he still muttered, while he moved ; “ I’d 
not have believed I could feel so like a cur ! Curse it ! 
I’ve not been more than half right for a year. I wonder if 
I am as contemptible as this poor girl has led me to feel. 
What have I done ? and what am I doing ? By the powers 
above, I don’t feel like going back home after this. Home ! 
home ! what right have I to lisp that word, even ! What 
right have I — such a man as I ! — to love that pure and 
innocent girl ; who, in return, would give — Perdition seize 
me ! I half believe I have been dreaming ! I’ll not go 
back ! I’ll not return to the house ! I’ll go out upon the 
wharf and think awhile. I’ll go out there and — and, by 
heaven, I’ll see if I can find my level ! ” 

A new impulse was upon him — the impulse of self-condem- 
nation. He did not pause until he had gained the extremity 
of the ruined wharf, when he seated himself upon a rock; 


MANLEY CL A FEEING FINDS HIS LEVEL. 


273 


the same on which Margaret Dawson had been seated, 
months before, when Clara came to alleviate the bitterness 
of her despair. And there, while the minutes lengthened to 
hours, Manley Clavering sat with arms across his knees, 
and eyes fixed steadfastly upon the gloomy depth of water 
below him. 

Not until nearly midnight did he raise his bowed head. 
His face was as white as if chilled by long exposure, or 
paled by severe illness. He looked like a man who had 
passed through a long and bitter conflict. Through suffer- 
ing only can man bring himself to voluntary humiliation, 
can he rise to the grandeur of self-sacrifice. The effect of 
all this moody contemplation was now apparent. 

“ It’s the only course that is left me — the only thing to 
be done,” he again began to mutter, gazing vacantly at the 
golden gleam which the distant lighthouse sent toward 
him across the somber surface of the sea. 

“ If I do it, it will show good and sufficient reason for 
this estrangement of Naomi, and silence at once the scan- 
dalous gossip which has cut her so deeply. Who’d have 
thought her so deucedly sensitive? Poor girl! for her sake 
alone I should be man enough to do it. If I do it, and 
Clara” — 

He caught himself up with a sob, instantly choked 
down, yet which evinced the ordeal through which he was 
passing. 

“And Clara renounces me, it’s no more than I deserve. 
Before God! I’m unfit, as I am, to look her in the face! 
Better now than hereafter. Delay may only augment the 
evil done. If my love is worth anything, it should be e.qual 
to this. If I do it, I then can approach Ben Brandon’s 
wronged wife, and clear my conscience of one burden at 
least. If I do it, I may then be able, in my hours of soli- 
tude, to think without a shudder of the dead son of yonder 


274 


UNION DOWN. 


man — the poor fellow who lies buried in Hong Kong, and 
whose lofty purpose I so long have perverted. If I do it, 
wrongs of the past will perhaps be righted, and the yards 
squared to the benefit of some poor woman. If I do it — I 
voluntarily relinquish riches and position which I feel may 
be safely retained. I lay myself liable to contempt and 
aversion, in place of that love which has become more, far 
more, to me than those unworthy honors — more, perhaps, 
than life itself! And I then become what I was before I met 
Ben Brandon — little more than a pauper, an adventurer; 
of no good to any human being in the world, not even to 
myself! What of it? I shall have at least only the stain 
of this shame to mock me — not the sin itself ! Shall I do it, 
or not? ” 

He fiercely bound his brow with his hands, as if this 
mental strain was really more than he could bear, and fairly 
wailed within himself : 

“ Let me decide here and now ! I never again can go 
through this ordeal! Let me decide now — and beyond the 
possibility of reversion ! Shall I do it, or shall I not? ” 

Still he sat there, bowed under the conflict within him, 
shaken at times like an aspen leaf. But the awakened 
spirit of true manhood conquered all baser parts of his 
nature, even though the conflict was a long and bitter one. 
He sprang suddenly to his feet, stretched both hands high 
above his head, and lifted his eyes, flooded now with tears, 
to the heavens above him. 

“ I never yet have sacrificed myself to the welfare of a 
human being!” he cried, in whispers that were thrilled by 
the surcharge of emotions which transfigured him. “I am 
determined now ! So help me God, I will not falter ! Before 

another day has passed, Clara, my father, all the town 

let my fate be what it may — shall know me for what I 


MANLEY CLAVERING FINES HIS LEVEL. 


275 


The clock on the village church was striking twelve, its 
mellow, resonant notes sounding sweet and full on the soft 
night air, when Manley, with a more settled, if not lighter, 
heart than when he had come, retraced his steps over the 
ruins of the wharf and regained the shore. It is not in 
man’s nature to feel light of heart, when self-assured that 
the morrow must witness his humiliation and degradation. 

He was about to hasten home to the house on the bluff, 
when the sound of hurried footsteps not far distant caught 
his ears, and at the same moment the hoarse voice of John 
Godbold. 

“ Hello, there ! ” hailed the seaman, from some twenty 
yards away. “ Lay to fur a minute ; I want to see yer. 
What the devil yer doin’ out yonder at this time o’ night?” 
he added, as he approached. 

“Thinking,” replied Manley, rather bluntly, and in some 
surprise at beholding the seaman, with whom he now felt to 
have little in common. 

“Thinkin’, eh?” grimly laughed Godbold, wiping from 
his swarthy cheeks and brow the perspiration occasioned 
by his rapid walk. “Thinkin’, was yer? Wal, it’s lucky 
enough yer went at it out o’ doors an’ out o’ bed, fur I was 
jest runnin’ up to hail yer, out or in.” 

“ Me?” — and Manley frowned darkly. “You were about 
seeking me ? ” 

“ Ay, an’ I’ll give yer suthin’ to think about in arnest 
this time.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

Whereupon John Godbold related the incident which so 
had impressed his cunning and suspicious mind; the fact of 
Sedgewick’s long interview with Margaret Dawson, of which, 
though unable to overhear what had been said, he had been 
a witness. 

Manley heard him in silence, but evinced not the slight- 


276 


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est apprehension. He naturally would have felt little occa- 
sion for alarm, other than what might have arisen from his 
neglect of Nancy Brandon; for of the death of the true 
Manley Clavering in Hong Kong, of which Ben Brandon 
had been fairly positive, he had entertained never a doubt. 
And had he for a moment even thought of Sedgewick as 
such, the latter’s conduct since his arrival in the immediate 
locality would speedily have dispelled such an idea. 

“Well,” coolly demanded Manley, when the seaman had 
finished; “what did you imagine I should care about this?” 

“Eh!” John Godbold started in surprise. “Yer don’t 
care ? ” 

“ Why should I ? Do you think I am interested in the 
doings of such persons as Mrs. Dawson ? Or of Mr. Sedge- 
wick, so far as that goes? He may visit her as often as he 
likes; his doing so will not trouble me.” 

“ Won’t, eh ! ” exclaimed Godbold, not half liking the 
other’s repellent tone and manner. “An’ d’yer think, Mr. 
Manley, that I’m not keen enough to read summat of a 
man’s mind by the look on his face? I tell yer, sir, he’s up 
in arms about suthin or nother ; an’ onless yer’re dead sar- 
tin o’ how yer stand with the pawnbroker’s darter, yer’d 
best” — 

“Bah!” interrupted Manley, contemptuously. “Are you 
still harping on that? Go home and to bed. I have told 
you half a score of times that I will fix matters with Nancy 
Brandon when occasion offers — which will be soon enough, 
now, rest assured,” added he, with a self-satisfied shake of 
his shapely head. 

But John Godbold was not so easily satisfied. He was 
far from being willing that his present easy source of liveli- 
hood should by any means be jeopardized. And Sedgewick’s 
countenance, during his late talk, had appealed to the sea- 
man with a significance not to be ignored. 


MANLEY CLAVE RING FINDS HIS LEVEL. 


277 


“Ay, so yer’ve told me,” answered he; “but fur all that 
yer can’t deny havin’ been afeard o’ suthin.” 

“I fear nothing, now,” said Manley, with all the calm- 
ness of a finally approving conscience. 

“ That may be ; but the best on us can’t alias tell when 
the wind may set from the wust Quarter,” grimly argued 
Godbold, with some wisdom. “It may turn out that this 
’ere man air the very one yer’ve most reason to fear; an’ 
so be it the time comes when safety demands his bein’ put 
out o’ the way, yer’d most likely turn to me to do the job, 
an’ it’s alias best to have sech matters settled aforehand.” 

Manley recoiled, turning quite pale. 

“ Put out of the way ! ” said he, in accents of genuine 
horror. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“Wal, sir, it don’t admit o’ many meanin’s,” bluntly 
' returned the seaman. “ Spozen ” — 

“ I will suppose nothing ! ” cried Manley, sternly. “ Do 
you dare imagine that I would, under any circumstances, 
even think of such a crime ! ” 

Godbold laughed grimly. 

“ I jedge only by the sort o’ coward’s way yer took to ” — 

“ Silence ! ” interrupted Manley, with bitter disdain. 
“ Cowards are invariably bullies. I never, in all my life, tried 
to bully a human being. I do not wish to speak further upon 
such a subject. You will not, with my consent — least of all, 
at my instigation — injure any man. Good-night. I am 
going home.” 

And, disgusted with the seaman — disgusted with him- 
self, as well — he turned sharply on his heel and walked 
away. 

But John Godbold’s selfish apprehensions would not 
allow of his being so easily shaken off. He swaggered 
heavily along at Manley’s side, crying discursively : 

“Belay a bit ! Yer can’t tell what may happen, an’ if” — 


278 


UNION DOWN. 


' “Nothing can happen, which would influence me to aim 
at such a crime ! ” 

“ How d’yer know ? Yer didn’t see the man’s face as I 
saw it ! Yer may have cause to change yer mind ! Wait ! ” 
and he seized Manley by the arm. “ D’yer see yonder 
spar ? ” 

He raised his horny brown hand and pointed to the flag- 
staff which rose twenty feet high above the cupola of the 
house on the bluff. Manley, like a man chilled or awed 
into attentiveness, paused and looked at it — a white mark 
on the dark sky — and then at the villainous speaker. 

“ If yer do have cause,” persistently continued Godbold, 
his evil eyes burning brightly, his voice lowered to an omin- 
ous whisper; “if yer safety does require this job, jest fly 
the flag from yonder staff. Not as it gen’rally is flied, mind 
yer! but fly it union down — a signal of distress! 
Then I’ll be sartin o’ what yer mean — an’ I’ll stand by to 
lend a hand an’ relieve yer! ” 

For all of a minute, Manley Clavering eyed the knave in 
silence, his lip slowly curling in a sneer of uttermost 
contempt. 

“You will never see our flag flying union down in any 
such ignoble cause,” he at length said sternly, proudly. 
“You dog! ” and he raised his clenched hand; “from this 
moment, I am done with you ! ” 

The hand fell. With eyes passionately blazing, he had 
dealt the seaman a ringing blow upon the breast. Then he 
turned abruptly, and, without a glance behind, strode haugh- 
tily away. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 

As usual, Naomi appeared at the breakfast-table next 
morning ; but not, in appearance, the serene and untroubled 
girl whom it was our earlier pleasure to introduce. Her 
dry, weary eyes evinced a sleepless night ; or, at least, one 
of sleep disturbed by depressing dreams. In the paleness 
of each cheek there had begun to glow a small red spot, 
the first outward sign of a slow but all-consuming fever. 
She responded rather vacantly to Sedgewick’s gentle greet- 
ing, at the same time avoiding his anxious eyes; but, 
before drawing her chair to the table, she bent above both 
her father and mother and softly kissed them. 

“ How are you feeling, dear ? ” the latter asked, with 
tender solicitude. 

“Quite well, I think, thank you,” said Naomi; but the 
faint smile, too plainly forced over the melancholy gravity 
of her face, gave a sad negative to her murmured wojrds. 

Mr. Wiseacre viewed her from across the table, and 
nodded his great fond head approvingly. 

“That is right, my precious flower,” he said slowly, in 
reply to her words, and his paternal encouragement was 
discreetly flavored with the very essence of profound sym- 
pathy. “ May our faith never waver from Him who doeth 
all things well and wisely. External nature abounds, this 
bright and glorious summer morning, in manifestations of 
His transcendent wisdom and never failing benevolence. 
Let us be grateful for all that is bestowed upon us, con- 

279 


280 


UNION DOWN 


scious that all that is, or may be, is the will of the all-wise 
Father. Let us all bow our heads in humble acknowledg- 
ment, and lift our hearts in thanksgiving.” 

And for several moments no sound broke the devout 
silence of the sacred scene. 

Naomi made no reply to her father’s personal remark of 
approval, and the breakfast proceeded ; but an atmosphere 
of sadness was over all save the younger members of the 
family, those tender “digits” who scarce could appreciate 
that a cloud had obscured the calm sunshine of the Wise- 
acre dwelling — an occurrence never before known. 

“ I think it’s an outrageous shame ! ” cried Ruth, alone 
with Leah and her mother a little later; and her bright 
black eyes, the only pair of which the family could boast, 
fairly snapped with irrepressible indignation. “ I wish that 
Manley Clavering had remained in China, rather than come 
home here to do as he has done.” 

“Hush, dear!” Mrs. Wiseacre gently remonstrated. 
“The least said, the soonest mended. It is far more to 
our credit to be silent and allow this matter to take its 
course.” 

“Take its course!” persisted Ruth, stamping her tiny 
foot. “You don’t see it as we girls do — and hear of it, 
also ! I wouldn’t care if only it had been me he has treated 
so shamefully, and of me that this gossip is current. I 
could take care of it, for I’d snap the very head off of 
anyone who dared breathe a word to my discredit. But 
Naomi — heavens! she can’t open her mouth to us, even.” 

“ She’s making herself ill, that’s what she’s doing,” said 
Leah, with sober face and moist eyes. 

“Yes,” cried Ruth ; “ and hasn’t the heart to speak of it, 
or to let us, even. If she would only talk, then she’d cry, 
and I know that would relieve her. I ” — 
v “Talk!” put in Leah, desperately drawing the dish- 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 


231 


towel across her wet eyes. “ She can’t do so even in bed 
with me, and in the dark. I never heard of such a case ! 
See how she steals away by herself at every opportunity. 
I tell you she’ll be down sick inside of a week.” 

“ She will unless she cries,” whipped out Ruth. “Tears, 
and lots of ’em, are the only thing for her. I’d make her 
cry, if I knew how. I’d even taunt her, if that would do 
it ; but I just know the effect of that. She’d not speak a 
word, and only turn away with those dry, hurt eyes of 
hers, and a face that would send me into fits. I wish Mr. 
Sedge wick ” — 

“That will do, Ruthie!” again interposed Mrs. Wise- 
acre. “ Do not even think of speaking of this before Mr. 
Sedgewick.” 

“To be sure not. 

“ The first pangs of sorrow should be allowed to soften, 
ere sympathy is too freely intruded. Naomi does not need 
to be assured of our sympathy.” 

“ Sorrow ! ” ejaculated Leah, rather disdainfully. “ It is 
more humiliation than sorrow. It’s not loss of love, I tell 
you, but something dearer far to our Naomi. She seems 
actually ashamed to be seen out of doors.” 

“Naomi has done nothing to be ashamed of,” said Mrs. 
Wiseacre, simply. 

“No — which makes this wound ache the harder,” cried 
Ruth, desperately. 

“ You both know what the Bible tells us,” and Mrs. Wise- 
acre, in her ever gentle way, hushed further talk upon the 
subject. 

At about the same time Mr. Wiseacre, also, was given 
to the same theme. He had arisen from the table, and, 
donning the stiff little hat which sat so high upon his great 
round head and gave to his expansive face a look of such 
boyish simplicity, had taken Sedgewick’s arm and walked 


282 


UNION DOWN 


out with him upon the lawn, somewhat apart from the 
house. 

“ My dear Sedgewick,” said he, in deeply mellow tones 
replete with sadness, yet betraying not a touch of that bit- 
terness of resentment which his words might suggest. 

“ My dear Sedgewick, I am hurt ; I am wounded.” 

Sedgewick regarded him in some surprise. Locked still 
to his arm, Mr. Wiseacre was slowly walking him to and fro 
a space of some twenty feet on a remote brink of the lawn, 
turning him regularly at the same spot, and retracing their 
steps with all the precision of two sentinels patrolling an 
abutment. The sadness of his tone led Sedgewick to fear 
that in some way he had given offence. 

“ Hurt ? ” said he, inquiringly. 

“Yes, hurt — wounded,” replied Mr. Wiseacre. “My 
heart is lacerated and my confidence has been mangled 
under the heel of the betrayer.” 

“You surprise me,” rejoined Sedgewick, nevertheless - 
beginning to surmise his meaning. 

“ My dear Sedgewick, I have permitted a scorpion to 
cross my threshold ; I have cherished a viper in my unsus- 
pecting bosom. I have been stung ; I have been bitten. 
The poison of unkindness and deceit courses through my 
veins. I repeat — I am hurt; I am wounded.” 

Sedgewick, at a moment when he was being wheeled 
about, seized the opportunity to look at the speaker. His 
lips were trembling; his two little tunnel-holes were filling 
with tears. 

“You refer to the conduct of this young man, Clavering?” 

“ Precisely,” replied Mr. Wiseacre, chewing up several 
sobs along with his words. “ This youthful personage, so 
fair and fine of exterior, has revealed an inconsideration 
and — pah! But I cannot speak of him ! I will not speak of 
him ! He is unworthy mention by tongue of mine. It is 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 


283 


rather of my tender blossom, my own cherished flower, my 
dear Sedgewick, that I had in mind to speak — to ask your 
counsel.” 

Orlando Sedgewick was as pale as he had been the even- 
ing before, but he was quite devoid of that agitation which 
then had marked him. He asked calmly : 

“Do you think that she loves Manley Clavering?” 

“No!” and Mr. Wiseacre developed a sudden and won- 
derful roundness of tone. “Not for one moment! Love 
for him, if it ever really existed in her purest of natures, is 
now an affection of the past. Innocence and virtue have no 
affinity for ignobility and vice. If the time has been when 
she saw through a glass darkly, she now sees face to face. 
Love, my dear Sedgewick, has little to do with the fading 
of my rose. The hot breath of scandal is blasting her; 
the fiery flames of — of — My dear Sedgewick, you know 
what a country town is! You know what meddlesome gos- 
sips and evil-inclined tongues may accomplish in a com- 
munity the size of ours. I know my Naomi’s sensitive 
nature. She takes after me. I understand her present 
affection ; and I repeat, my dear Sedgewick, I am” — 

“You were about to ask my advice ?” inquiringly inter- 
posed Sedgewick, who that morning had plans of his own 
to put into operation, and was eager to courteously escape 
this man, whose loquacity might not wane till noonday. 

“ True ! ” exclaimed Mr. Wiseacre, thus brought back to 
his original purpose. “And pardon, my dear Sedgewick — 
pardon my digression. I am quite out of my usual mental 
orbit ; sent off on a tangent, as it were, by my anxiety con- 
cerning Naomi. She appears ill, my dear Sedgewick; and, 
while I am frank to confess that I believe a man who 
would like to die a natural death must dwell at least forty 
miles from a drug store and a physician, yet I am so exer- 
cised by my Naomi’s condition that I fear I may be lax of 


284 


UNION DOWN 


my parental obligations if I longer defer to summon the doc- 
tor. My dear Sedgevvick, what do you think? and what 
would you advise ? ” 

Sedgewick, with a grave smile, shook his head. 

“Naomi is not ill of body,” said he; “and I do not 
think a doctor is the person best qualified to minister to 
her.” 

“Who, then?” eagerly asked Mr. Wiseacre. 

“Herself,” replied Sedgewick. “I maybe wrong, but I 
would advise you to let her alone.” 

Mr. Wiseacre brightened remarkably. 

“ Do you know, my dear Sedgewick, that is just what I 
think, and what I am doing!” 

“ I would continue to do so, then ; and maintain as cheer- 
ful surroundings as possible. Perhaps a visit from Clara 
Clavering would serve to cheer her. I am going over there 
directly and will broach the subject.” 

Mr. Wiseacre readily coincided, and so Sedgewick 
shortly after slipped away, and turned his steps toward the 
house on the bluff. 

It is not unfrequently said of the condemned criminal, 
that he slept soundly and peacefully his last night on earth. 

Returning home and to bed after his interview with John 
Godbold, Manley Clavering slept well. It was nearly 
eight o’clock when he awoke next morning and saw the sun 
shining in at his window. 

He sprang out of bed and dressed. Whatever burden 
may have weighed upon his mind, it did not impede his 
actions. His every movement was of that quick, energetic 
character which evinces directness and stability of purpose. 

When ready to descend to breakfast, he lingered for a 
moment and looked at himself in his mirror. He was hand- 
some. His eyes were bright and his lips firm. The poise 
of his head, unconsciously thrown back with an air of bold 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 


285 


resolution, caught his eye, and he smiled. It was a better 
and a worthier smile than that which he had bestowed upon 
himself that morning in his room at the hotel in western 
Massachusetts, and he had now no touch of that impulsive 
and dare-devil spirit which had then inspired him. 

“ By heaven ! ” thought he; “I feel more like myself than 
for many a day. I now can look myself in the face; 
though” — with a sadder smile — “I shortly may find it hard 
enough to look others. What a pity that man cannot reveal 
his heart to the very uttermost! In that case she would at 
least pity me. But I never can make her believe that I am 
nothing worse than an impulsive, inconsiderate fool. Poor 
Clara. Poor Naomi. Poor me! On my life, I wish I’d 
never been born, or never seen Ben Brandon. What a dev- 
il’s own mess I’ve made of it, by letting the thing go on 
from day to day instead of making a clean breast of it, as 
I’ve thought from the first I would do. Curse it! if it 
weren’t for the others, all would be well ; for I deserve my 
punishment — ay, the hardest that can be imposed. I hope 
they will hate me — not keep on loving. They can stand 
it easier, if only they will hate, or at least despise. I 
think I’ll try to picture myself as black as possible — that 
may insure it. She then may be able to — to forget me 
more easily.” 

He caught himself up with a single, half-subdued sob. 
Do not infer, from his light drift of thought, that the duty to 
which he finally had arisen was an easy duty to perform, or 
one from whose result he did not shrink. It was not in him 
to consider more profoundly. 

But that he would voluntarily relinquish those acquire- 
ments to which many men — so very, very many men ! — 
would, in like circumstances, have tenaciously clung ; a posi- 
tion felt to be assured, comparative wealth, the fellowship of a 
large circle of admiring acquaintances, outward comfort and 


286 


UNION DOWN 


enjoyment ; that he could now bring himself to a humilia- 
ting confession of his errors, debase himself in the sight of 
loved and loving ones; even more — that he could do this 
with no hope, no thought even, of pardon, and eager only 
to so present himself that memory of him must awaken 
those sentiments most potent to estrange him and beget for- 
getfulness — all this must speak for itself. 

Though the cloud which hung above them at breakfast 
that morning at the house on the bluff, was denser and 
darker far than that which obscured the sunshine of the 
Wiseacre dwelling, no shadow of it was yet apparent. 
Manley appeared as usual, and he alone could guess what 
the day might bring forth. 

Breakfast over, Mr. Clavering took his hat and cane and 
went out into the warm fields for his customary morning 
stroll. 

Manley withdrew to the veranda, which he paced steadily 
for some considerable time, his hands clasped behind him, 
his head bent in thought, his face constantly growing paler. 
He felt that the lime was drawing near — the hour of his deg- 
radation. Though he never wavered from his purpose, his 
very soul shrank from the ordeal — shrank from dealing the 
terrible blow which he knew must be dealt. His hands 
were as cold as ice, and, despite his will, his knees shook 
beneath him. How many men yrould have cleaved to such 
a resolution, so easily to have been broken ? 

He had decided to make' the disclosure first to Clara, 
that her gentle presence and sympathy might in a degree 
soften the blow from her father; and he waited only till she 
should have completed her few household duties, when he 
would speak. 

A confession begun is half made. It is the upward 
struggle to duty, it is the speaking of those first few words 
which must bow in shame the head of the speaker and 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 


287 


shock and wound the heart of the hearer, that makes con- 
fession so hard. The pang of a knife-thrust is infinitely 
more dreaded than the after pain. 

He heard Clara’s step in the hall, and knew that she was 
approaching the door. He drew himself suddenly erect; 
hesitated for a single moment, shuddering from head to 
foot — then he advanced quickly and met her on the 
threshold. 

“Why, Manley!” she exclaimed, recoiling. “How you 
startled me ! How you look ! ” 

He controlled his voice by force of will, but his paleness 
was beyond government. He took her by the arm and led 
her into the library; that room in which he first had met 
Randolph Clavering, first had fairly launched himself into 
those waters whose depths he had never imagined. 

“I wish to speak to you,” he said firmly, yet gently. 
“Come in here. I have something I must say to you.” 

Clara did not answer. Though rather awed by his appear- 
ance, she far from imagined its cause. She thought he was 
about to speak again of his love, of his aspirations ; and, in 
the brief time allowed her, she vaguely wished that he would 
defer the plea till she could again see Sedgewick. She let 
him place her in a chair, and looked up at him in some sur- 
prise ; for he had withdrawn to the mantel, several feet 
away, and remained standing. He felt that he had no right 
to sit in her presence, while saying what he now was forced 
to say. 

“I must tell you something, Clara,” he repeated, resting 
his hand on a corner of the mantel for support; for now he 
felt faint and dizzy, and the very room seemed to circle 
around him. “Perhaps I should preface it by referring to 
the past — to our past — to my love for you; for, when I 
have concluded, I may never speak again of that.” 

“ Manley ! ” 


288 


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She was alarmed now ; alarmed both by his words and 
aspect. His name broke from her lips with a cry wdiich 
betrayed, as words alone never could have revealed, how 
deeply she loved him. She sprang up from her chair to 
approach him. 

“ Don’t — don’t come near me yet ! ” he cried appealingly. 
“Just hear what I have to say. It is something that must 
be said, Clara; something that I have withheld too long 
already. I wish to speak of it to you first, Clara ; for, when 
the time comes for — for Mr. Clavering to hear it, perhaps 
your love and ” — 

He got no further, for the confession which was trembling 
on his bloodless lips was interrupted. 

Approaching the house, Orlando Sedgewick had seen the 
two enter from the veranda. He had walked directly up 
the steps and into the hall, yet they had not heard him. 
He had observed Manley Clavering, standing there by the 
mantel, his face as white as marble, its expression revealing 
as well as his words the purpose which inspired him. And 
he had caught a glimpse of Clara’s awed and anxious face, 
and he recalled his pledge of the previous day. A strange 
expression leaped to Sedgewick’s countenance. The omin- 
ous frown about his eyes vanished like a flash, and their 
light softened. 

“He has risen to this!” thought he, with a thrill of sur- 
prise. “He can do this! Thank God, then, for so much! 
But the time is not yet ripe for retribution ! ” 

Then he strode forward to the door of the room, saying 
genially : 

“ I hope that I don’t intrude.” 

He knew that he did. He knew that Manley was dis- 
tressed and Clara disturbed ; but he knew, too, that neither 
would forget the courtesy which became them. 

Nor did they. And long before he signified any intention 


THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 


289 


of going, Mr. Clavering had returned from his walk, and 
Manley’s worthy design was for the time perverted. 

And when Sedgewick finally departed, he had persuaded 
Clara to accompany him to Mr. Wiseacre’s, in the hope that 
she at least might be able by her presence to cheer Naomi. 
How could he know that this would be but adding fuel to 
the flames? 

That Naomi was ill and dispirited was ample to awaken 
Clara’s sympathy and interest, even though she herself was 
depressed by the brief scene with Manley, and left indescrib- 
ably anxious as to its meaning. In company with Mr. 
Sedgewick, she started for the Wiseacre dwelling. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 

Ill at ease, yet quite unable to reasonably attribute any 
secret motive to Sedgewick’s late manceuver, Manley loi- 
tered about the house and bluff until mid-afternoon, anx- 
iously awaiting Clara’s return. 

Relapse from that high pitch of nervous excitement to 
which he had wrought himself when about to make his con- 
fession, left him uncomfortable, if not discouraged. Though 
his resolution did not waver, it was more difficult to bring 
himself a second time to the terrible crisis. 

Grown weary at length of waiting for Clara, and seeing 
that Mr. Clavering had arisen from his customary after- 
noon nap, he determined to defer his disclosure until even- 
ing, and go for a long walk through the woods and fields. 

“ I will tramp a good ten miles,” thought he, approach- 
ing the house. “ It will serve to steady my nerves. I 
could not broach the subject, as I now feel, if she were 
here. I will wait until nightfall, when I shall have no 
trouble in finding her alone, and can manage to preclude 
interruption.” 

Though with no expectation of putting it to use, he took 
his fowling-piece from its rack in the basement hall. From 
force of habit he wished to have it beneath his arm. As 
he strode away across the lawn, Mr. Clavering called to 
him from the veranda. 

“Where are you going, Manley?” 

290 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS, 


291 


“ Just for a tramp through the woods,” replied he, turn- 
ing back for a moment and looking up at the sallow face of 
the man upon whom he had imposed so cruelly. He had 
avoided him since morning. He could not deceive him 
longer by false sentimentality; he was not in the mood. 
“ I will return in time for tea,” he added. 

“Yes, do so,” came the earnest rejoinder. “And be 
careful of the gun, my boy. I am always anxious when I 
know you have it with you.” 

“There is no occasion,” answered Manley, still steadily 
regarding him. 

Somehow he felt indescribably drawn to him at just that 
moment; unusually moved by his melancholy aspect, his 
touching fondness and invariable gentleness. It was a bit- 
ter rebuke to Manley Clavering, now, when he thought of 
the past and of his near duty. 

“ I hope so,” tremulously nodded Mr. Clavering from the 
veranda. “But accidents are liable, my boy — liable. Be 
careful, that’s all. It would kill me, I believe, were evil 
to befall you, my boy — befall you. Return by sun-down, 
Manley, my boy. Good-by ! ” 

The young man on the lawn below choked down a sob, 
and his hand closed more tightly around the stock of his 
gun. 

“ Good-by ! ” he called tenderly, with a gasp ; and, turning 
with an abruptness born of mingled desperation and 
despair, he hurried away. He would have been willing to 
have been hurried out of existence, could that only have 
wiped out the past. 

He strode across the fields and away through the shad- 
owy woods. Plunged deep in thought, he held his swing- 
ing stride for a long time — longer far than he realized; 
and not until the outskirts of a familiar town rose before 
him, did he awaken to the fact that he had covered many 


292 


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miles. The sun was already low in the western sky. Do 
his best, he could not reach home ere nightfall; but with an 
exclamation of wonderment, that he had been so oblivious 
to the passing of time, he wheeled sharp about and tire- 
lessly began to retrace his steps. He was less nervous, 
now, and firm again to embrace the duty felt to be before 
him. 

From his position on the veranda, Randolph Clavering 
had gazed after him as long as he remained in view. With 
hands resting on the rail before him, with tremulous gray 
head half bowed, and wan features drawn by mental suffer- 
ing long and silently endured, Randolph Clavering had the 
appearance of a man on the threshold of eternity. Did he 
realize his nearness to death’s door? It is hardly probable, 
yet the expression of his pallid face evinced the thoughts 
which men are fain to entertain when the end is felt to be 
near. 

Mingled with the fondness in his eyes, as he gazed after 
"-“his boy,” there was an expression suggestive of something 
wanted, the shadow of something still to be desired ; the 
lack of which had imparted to the songs and laughter, for 
which he so long had yearned, the hollow ring of mockery, 
and may have dulled the keen edge of that longing which 
so had imbued his latter part of life. 

“Is it possible — possible?” he muttered brokenly, his 
bloodless lips twitching nervously, his gray head shaken as 
if by palsy. 

He sighed heavily, and, clinging to the rail with one hand, 
the other pressed to his furrowed brow, he tottered unstead- 
ily along the veranda and dropped wearily into his great 
willow chair. 

“ Failing — failing daily ! ” audibly muttered he, the habit 
of decrepitude already fastened strong upon him. “ I wel- 
come the going — welcome it even while I dread it — 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 


293 


dread my meeting with her! Yet,” wringing his thin, sal-* 
low hands ; “ she may know ; she may know my heart — my 
sorrow — my remorse. They say that the angels in heaven 
are in touch with us — know our every sentiment, our every 
thought. May she know mine! Pray God that she may 
know mine! that she may be moved to pardon — to testify 
to my repentance before the Divine Tribunal.” 

His head had fallen against the high back of the chair; 
his eyes were rolled heavenward in a ghastly expression of 
appeal. Something moving on the remote lawn diverted 
his mind on the instant. He thought Manley was return- 
ing. It was only the youth employed about the place, who 
was crossing in the direction of the stable. But the inci- 
dent recalled that look, like a shadow of disappointment, to 
Randolph Clavering’s face, and again set in motion his 
earlier train of thought. 

“ Is it possible that she died and left him in ignorance of 
the past? It must be so — he said so. Yet from the day 
of his return he has betrayed no sign of curiosity, no nat- 
ural inclination to know the truth. Is it possible that he is 
so disinterested? Or does he know? does he know? and 
hide the past from me — from me ! God forbid ! ” and the 
solitary muser half started from his chair and groaned 
aloud ; “ God forbid ! for that were to reveal him as base as 
I have been ! ” 

He fell back and stared vacantly at the green sweep of 
lawn below him, his hands clasped across his breast. 

“I could wish for something more — something more in 
my boy,” he went on muttering. “Had he been more 
sedate, more stable of character, more — more — more like 
this stranger, Sedgewick, it would have been easy to dis- 
close the past, to suggest the duty which — which has been 
so long neglected. It is hard — hard at this late day. I 
have lived so long in men’s esteem, so long in fear of men’s 


294 


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opinion, that it is hard to undeceive them now, hard to 
humble myself to their censure. But it is harder to die with 
this duty undone ! With his aid — my boy’s aid — I might 
yet discover Archer’s wife. Poor Archer! Dead — and 
lying where soon, at the farthest, I must lie ! If I could dis- 
cover his wife,” he went on, in desultory wandering; “if I 
could feel that Manley would pity and pardon and aid, I 
yet might make some atonement. Poor Archer! Who 
could imagine that he fills that lonesome grave — Ha! the 
past is a nightmare! Will I never awaken! never — never 
— How this man Sedgewick has talked to me of duty, of 
virtue, of unselfish qualities which bring greater happiness 
than — He don’t know ! he little knows ! ” 

For a long time he remained musing thus — a pitiable 
picture of what wilful error may produce; but finally he 
arose and walked unsteadily into the house. Entering the 
library he seated himself at a desk in one corner of the 
room. From one of the drawers, opened with a key taken 
from his pocket, he drew forth several pages of manuscript, 
which he carefully read for the hundredth time. 

“ It covers all the ground,” he muttered faintly, the sheets 
rustling in his nerveless fingers, his eyes strained and star- 
ing, as if at the long sweep of past. 

“It covers all the' ground — and might serve the purpose. 
Yet I am loth to leave it behind me. It might come 
under Clara’s eyes. I would like to spare Clara. I would 
like to keep her memory of me unstained by the truth 
even. Why not destroy it — this confession, these instruc- 
tions to my son — and nerve myself to a verbal confession ? 
I — I think I may rely upon Manley. I — I think that he 
would pardon, would be eager to help me make amends. 
There’s enough for all. Oh, God ! ” and Randolph Clavering 
vented a mingled groan and sob of anguish ; “ why have I 
not always felt so ! ” 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 


295 


The sound of familiar footsteps on the veranda startled 
him, and sent an even more deathly paleness to his hag- 
gard face. With shaking hands he hurriedly thrust the 
papers out of sight, and had closed and securely locked 
the drawer when Clara entered. 

“ Ah, here you are, dear father ! ” she cried tenderly, with 
an expression of relief. “I am quite ashamed of having 
left you so long. Where is Manley?” 

“Manley — Manley?” tremulously faltered he, vainly 
striving to steady his wavering mind. “I — I really don’t 
know. Didn’t he go with you ? I thought he always 
enjoyed being with you.” 

“With me?” said Clara, with enforced cheerfulness, yet 
with tears rising in her eyes when she saw how surely and 
steadily he was failing, when she realized how soon the 
dreaded end must come. 

“No; Manley has not been with me. Don’t you re- 
member, dear ; 1 went with Mr. Sedgewick to see 
Naomi.” 

“Sedgewick — yes; how that man talks! Naomi — so 
you did ; so you did, dear. You were not at home to din- 
ner. Of course I remember that. Did you see Naomi ? 
Why don’t she come over here ?” 

“She is not well, poor dear,” replied Clara, with pro- 
found sympathy. “ I cannot imagine what has affected her. 
I could get nothing out of her. She appeared unable to 
tell what ailed her, yet seemed like one in some sort of 
trouble. I ” — 

“Trouble? — trouble? Send her some money, Clara! 

Won’t that” — 

“ No, no, father dear ; it is nothing of that kind, I am 
sure. Even her mother did not seem free to explain. I 
am terribly anxious concerning her. I advised them to 
call the doctor.” 


296 


UNION DOWN. 


“ Yes, yes; call the doctor,” nodded Randolph Clavering 
from his chair. “ Manley’s gone gunning ! ” 

Clara could not but smile faintly at his abrupt divergence 
and the odd expression which accompanied his words. 

“Gone gunning, has he?” she replied; and she now 
clasped him about the neck from behind, and laid her fair, 
warm cheek to his. “ And what are you doing here, dear, 
all by yourself ? ” 

“Just looking over my papers,” doubtfully answered he, 
affectionately fondling her hands. “ My papers, dear.” 

She turned her lips to his cheek, holding him closer to 
her breast, and murmured lovingly : 

“ I will not disturb you, then. I am going to my room 
to slip on a heavier dress ; it is growing cool outside and 
the wind is rising. I will not be long away.” 

“No — don’t, dear.” 

“ Indeed I will not.” 

“ Good-by.” 

His wavering gaze followed her to the door. 

“ Good-by.” 

How those parting words came back to her in after 
years! She turned* and smiled lovingly upon him — 
smiled, with a sob surging in her aching breast; and then 
she left him, still seated at his desk, his eyes still turned 
toward her. 

A minute passed. The mind of the man digressed. His 
eyes reverted to the desk before him ; they wandered to a 
pigeon-hole which contained quite a number of folded 
papers. He drew one forth ; selected it from the rest with 
a certainty that told how frequently he had done so in days 
past ; and he spread it open on the desk and read it. 

It was the letter which months before had informed him 
that his wife was dead, that his son lived and was coming 
home. 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 


297 


It was the letter written by his true son, written in China 
a month prior to the writer’s illness; a letter which Ran- 
dolph Clavering had read and read and read, until its every 
phrase and word and peculiarity were indelibly impressed 
upon his brain. 

And the letter had one remarkable peculiarity — its chi- 
rography. Orlando Sedgewick wrote a coarse, angular 
hand, the like of which is seen but once in a lifetime, and 
once seen is never forgotten. He had spoken of it to 
Nancy Brandon, that evening when he wrote his name and 
address on the back of one of the pawnbroker’s cards. 

“It is a long time,” muttered Randolph Clavering, gazing 
down at the letter, which had not left his possession since 
received; “it is a long time since you came; came to fill 
me with joy and hopes — hopes that have not all been real- 
ized. It is a long time since ” — 

He ceased abruptly, then folded and replaced the letter. 
He had found it difficult" to read. The lines had crept 
under his eyes, like black worms wriggling across the white 
pages. His head felt badly, and he could not think without 
losing the beginning of a thought ere he ended it. 

He arose with an effort and tottered into the hall. There 
was no one in sight, no one in hearing. He went on into 
the adjoining room — the drawing-room. *It was vacant. 
He looked about for Clara, having forgotten where she had 
gone. 

A book lying on the centre-table caught his eye. It was 
a plush-covered album for autographs, and, belonging to 
Clara, was usually kept in her room. Its rich color 
attracted him, as it might have attracted a child. He took 
up the book and opened it. 

It opened quite naturally at the page last spread for writ- 
ing, and Randolph Clavering looked down on the name 
thereupon, a name written within the week. 


298 


UNION DOWN. 


u Manley?” he muttered wonderingly. “Manley has 
been writing in ” — 

There he stopped short, with a look of annoyance. How 
his eyes tormented him ! The name did not look like 
Manley, the word was not shaped like the word Manley; 
yet the chirography was identical with that of the letter 
which he had just read, the letter received from his son. 
Surely Manley must have written the two words on the page 
before him — yet that last name did not look like Clavering! 

Book in hand he tottered to the window, where the light 
was brighter. The rays of the declining sun fell across the 
snowy page and set forth in bolder contrast the inky letters. 
His dilating eyes devoured them. And there, in that coarse, 
angular hand, once seen never forgotten, the hand which 
had characterized the letter received from China, the hand 
of the man who, if evidence of this kind were worth any- 
thing, should be his son, Randolph Clavering read the 
name — 

Orlando Sedgeivick ! 

One naked truth burst upon him like a flash of lightning 
from a cloudless sky — he had been deceived ! 

The effect, also, was like lightning, and more than he 
could sustain. It severed the feeble bonds which had 
joined mind and* matter. Only a swift recollection of Sedge- 
wick’s manner, talk and interest at the house on the bluff, 
swept through his reeling brain — then, the book dropped 
from his hands, and his hands went to his head. A swift 
convulsion distorted his bloodless face. His arms fell like 
lead at either side. His knees swayed helpless for an 
instant — and then, with a crash upon the floor, Randolph 
Clavering fell senseless, stricken down by a paralytic shock. 

The noise of his fall was echoed by a .scream, both from 
the floor above and below ; at the same moment Clara and 
Hannah Hood, the housekeeper, rushed to the spot. 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 


299 


“ Father ! Oh, my father ! ” was the former’s piteous cry 
when she beheld him ; and, instantly divining the nature of 
his affliction, she burst into a torrent of tears, falling to her 
knees by his side. 

u Heaven above !”. cried Mrs. Hood, in alarm. “He’s 
had a shock! You can’t do a thing but call the doctor! 
Where’s Manley? ” 

In an instant Clara was upon her feet, her immediate 
duty uppermost in her excited mind. 

“ Stay here till I return ! ” she commanded wildly ; and , 
in a moment more she had darted out upon the veranda. 

The hired man was standing in the stable door. 

“ John ! John ! ” 

Her distressful summons was echoed from the wall of 
woods near by. 

“ Yes, Miss Clara ! ” 

“ Harness Hamlet at once and bring the doctor ! Mr. 
Clavering has had a shock — is dying ! ” 

“ Dying 1 ” 

Like a flash the man darted into the stable. 

“Where is Manley?” again demanded Mrs. Hood, from 
beside the prostrate man, as Clara reappeared in the hall. 

The latter made no answer, but she remembered what her 
father had said. 

One glance into the drawing-room told her that there had 
been no change, that there might be none for some little 
time. With tears streaming down her cheeks and limbs 
shaking beneath her, she caught up her skirts and darted 
up the stairs. Up, up, and up, she hastened, panting, well- 
nigh breathless, until she had mounted the steep ladder 
last of all, and stood within the narrow confines of the 
cupola. 

Their flag, their signal of distress, lay in a heap on the 
floor. The halliards from the tall staff outside entered at 


300 


UNION DOWN 


one of the windows. But one immediate design possessed 
her — to signal Manley to return. 

_With heart beating in the very wildness of agony unen- 
durable, with eyes blinded by tears, with hands quivering 
and shaking from haste and excitement, she tore the hal- 
liards from the cleat and knotted them to the bunting. In 
another moment the mass of folds was thrust wildly from 
the lofty window, and her frenzied hands were drawing on 
the line. 

Up went the flag, higher and higher, till the strain upon 
the halliard informed her that the flag had reached the head 
of the staff. Then she made fast the lines. 

She did not, as she had been wont to do, lean forth from 
the lofty window to gaze proudly up at the broad banner 
waving in the breeze; but, with a sob — a wail, rather — 
which revealed her terrible anguish, she flew down the stairs 
by which she had come, and back to the side of the stricken 
man. 

Manley Clavering still was far away. 

Ere his return, night was destined to envelop in her 
mantle of darkness the sea and the shore, the house on the 
bluff, and the signal floating above it. A fatal signal ! 

For, in her haste and blinding excitement, and all uncon- 
scious of the evil she was about to set in operation, Clara 
Clavering had mismanaged the halliards ; and now, with 
graceful folds rolling in the breeze and kissed by the last 
rays of the descending sun, above that ill-fated dwelling 
there floated indeed a signal of distress. 

The flag was flying — Union Down ! 

John Godbold finished his supper that evening, and, pipe 
in hand, walked out at the back door of his dwelling, to 
anticipate the morrow’s weather from the western sky. 

In an instant a gleam of triumph shot across his villain- 
ous face. 


A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS. 


301 


“ Ha ! So the powder-monkey’s found reason to change 
his mind, has he? ” growled he, exultantly. “It’ll be wuth 
suthin’ to have this ’ere sort o’ hold on him an’ his money! 
The signal o’ distress, eh ! I’ll be as good as my word ! 
I’ll stand by at once to relieve him ! ” 

He entered the house, slipped a sharp sheath-knife 'into 
his pocket, and donned the oldest reefer he possessed. 

In the darkness, a half-hour later, he was watching for 
Sedgewick outside the Wiseacre dwelling. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


SEA AND NIGHT. 

The tide had turned and was flooding. The waters were 
rising. The great volume of ocean was surging westward, 
creeping inward to every bay and cove and creek, and fill- 
ing with living, moving sea the black, muddy chasms of the 
marshlands. Steadily, ceaselessly, resistlessly, the tide was 
surging onward. 

It covered the lesser flats, hiding their yellow nakedness 
from the darkness even. It crept higher and higher on the 
shores, rippling on the rocky beaches, and stealing silently 
among the tall, dank grasses. It deepened the channels 
and widened the bay. 

Only the stars observed it. Only the wind, blowing off 
shore, opposed it — the same wind that waved wildly to 
and fro the signal of distress, still flying from the lofty staff 
above the house on the bluff. 

Emerging from Margaret Dawson’s dwelling between 
eight and nine o’clock, Orlando Sedgewick turned his steps 
toward the shore. The purpose of this evening interview 
will appear in his conduct. He felt that he had no right 
to act alone in the coming crisis; among the interests 
involved, his own were regarded of a secondary character. 
Deep in thought, he moved slowly down the lane toward 
the beach. 

Some one followed him, moving when he moved, pausing 
302 


SEA AND NIGHT. 


303 


when he paused; a shadow, darker than the darkness, 
indistinct in the gloom, moving cautiously and silently a 
dozen yards behind him. 

On the beach Sedgewick stopped, and stood awhile like 
one undecided, gazing out across the gloomy sea. The 
shadow also stopped, undecided, and waited. 

At length Sedgewick moved again. He walked to the 
water’s edge and looked at a small boat, which was listing 
this way and that in the shallow waves. Her oars, rolling 
from side to side upon the thwarts, had disturbed his train 
of thought. He turned and looked toward the house on 
the bluff, a good half-mile away. Lights were gleaming 
from many of its windows, some of them the upper ones. 
He drew a natural but erroneous conclusion — that some of 
the household were retiring for the night. He had not 
heard of Randolph Clavering’s sudden illness. 

“ I will wait awhile longer,” thought he. “ Probably I 
may then find him alone. 

He was thinking of Manley — of the scene he had pic- 
tured in mind when they should meet. He could not 
divine that near event which was destined, by its terrible 
import, to preclude that scene forever. 

The oars again rattled over the thwarts, and his eyes 
reverted to the boat. Impelled by some influence, either 
from within or without, he loosed the grapnel from the 
shore, and, boarding the boat, pushed off. 

It was a step taken for the most part indifferently; the 
move of a man weary of inactivity, whose lax muscles 
appealed for usage. He was not a skillful oarsman; but the 
wind, blowing off shore, aided him. At worst, the return 
could not be very difficult. # He pulled out into the bay, 
rowing at times, at times sitting idly, and gazing thought- 
fully toward the lights still gleaming from the windows of 
the distant dwelling. The beach was left astern ; the 


304 


UNION DOWN 


channel, deep and wide, was entered and crossed. Still he 
floated on. 

The grating of the boat on sandy bottom startled him. 
He turned and looked over the bow. He was close upon a 
portion of one of the sand flats, still left bare by the flood- 
ing tide. Its smooth, level surface attracted him. The 
lights were still gleaming from the house on the bluff. A 
stroke with the light blades brought him within easy land- 
ing distance. He shipped the oars, stepped out upon the 
flat, and forced the grapnel into the higher ground with his 
heel. Whether the tide was rising or falling, did not enter 
his head. Matter, rather than mind, had impelled these 
actions. 

The shadow had briefly ceased to follow him — save with 
its eyes. It had remained motionless upon the shore, 
grimly muttering under its breath, and gazing steadily after 
the rower, barely discernible even to the evil, animal-like 
eyes of John Godbold. 

“ What’s he arter now, puttin’ off i’ the skiff ? ” he had 
muttered with an oath. “ Not suicide ? Afore God ! that 
would save me a resky job. What business is this o’ his 
an’ the Dawson woman? The lad up yonder must a larned 
suthin unexpected, fur him to a flied the signal so sudden- 
like. But it be safe enough that he knows. Let him 
alone fur that. An’ yer can rest easy, mate ; yer can 
rest easy. Since the income o’ John Godbold hangs on yer 
safety, have no fear but he’ll stand by to lend yer a hand. 
The pay fur the job’ll come arter, since yer’ll be in the boat 
along with me. An’ yer’ll find the turn I have on yer, arter 
this night’s work, will bind yer to me fur — Damn me ! if I 
don’t think he’s landed ! ” 

The seaman darted to the water’s edge, and, dropping to 
his knee, peered eagerly through the darkness. 

“Ay, fur sartin he’s left the skiff an’ is walkin’ up the 


SEA AND NIGHT. 


305 


flat. An’ — an’ he can’t swim! he can’t swim a stroke! 
Them’s his own words ! Can I make his boat afore he 
wants to put off ? If not, I can hail him fur help from the 
channel, an’ capsize him in boardin’! Afore God! this 
chance is nuthin’ to that o’ the thrust o’ a knife ! ” 

And now, actuated by the fiendish possibility which 
seemed to fairly have been played into his hands, John 
Godbold moved like a demon. Taking his knife between 
his teeth, and divesting himself of boots and reefer, he 
plunged into the sea. 

It was a strong hundred yards across the channel, but 
thrice that distance were as nothing to the spirit which 
inspired him. Breasting the waves with steady, powerful 
strokes, his gleaming eyes never leaving the dim figure still 
moving on the flat, he swam on and on, breathing harder 
and harder, yet never waning in power — swimming with 
strength born of rising exultation, or lent by the fiend 
whom he served so faithfully. 

Now his moving feet touched bottom at the farther edge 
of the channel. In fear of discovery, he dared not rise 
erect; but, pausing not an instant for breath, and crouching 
lower and lower as the water became more shallow, he 
crept nearer and nearer, until, knife in hand, he knelt 
beside the tossing boat. 

He raised his head above the rail and gazed at Sedge- 
wick. The latter was standing motionless, some thirty feet 
away, his eyes turned upon the golden gleam of warning 
from the -distant lighthouse. The seaman dared not hazard 
discovery by leaving the water in order to loose the grap- 
nel ; but, drawing the bow of the boat toward him, he 
silently severed her painter with his knife, and as silently 
drew her toward the channel. 

Not until he had propelled her far toward the distant 
mainland, did John Godbold loose his hold upon her and 


306 


UNION DOWN. 


allow her to drift at the will of wind and waves. This was 
safer than to take her to the mainland, which would natu- 
rally divert the theory of accident, when the assumed 
fatality should be discovered. The tide, setting strongly 
in, had swept him far above the upper exposure of the flat. 
Neither wind nor tide nor waves would serve to beat the 
drifting boat back to him who so soon must miss and need 
her. 

Not sooner, however, than the miscreant who could do 
this deed. His hand had barely left the rail, and his 
brawny arm sunk beneath the waves, when an oath burst 
from his lips. 

“ Christ ! this water’s cold ! ” 

He had accomplished his awful purpose, and the infernal 
fires, which till now had burned within him and rendered 
him oblivious to physical sensations, had expired. As his 
arm and shoulder were submerged, he felt a chill, like a 
sharp pain, dart from shoulder to finger-tips, and his hand 
was tightly, involuntarily clenched, as if by a convulsion. 

An expression of terror leaped to his face — a face which 
had briefly sunk into a darkness denser than that of the 
night, and which now reappeared, dripping and white and 
horror-stricken, on the surface of the waves. 

He glanced over his shoulder for the boat. It had been 
swept far beyond his reach. Panting from his exertions, 
well-nigh breathless, he was struggling in the very middle 
of the channel, in water fathoms deep. 

“Afore God! I wish I’d clung to” — 

A wave, as if angry, indignant, resentful of his hideous 
crime, dashed itself into his face and throat and choked him 
to silence. 

Again he sunk from view of the stars, even; then rose 
again, his bloodless face convulsed by horror — a single, 
ghastly-white spot on the surrounding darkness. That ter- 


SEA AND NIGHT. 


307 


rible, darting pain, that pang which contracted every mus- 
cular fiber through which it passed, had again assailed him, 
shooting through one entire side of his body, and one arm 
and leg were rendered powerless by the resistless spasm. 

With a single gasping curse- — his last on earth — he es- 
sayed to conquer his weakness, beating into froth with one 
arm the merciless waves around him. He realized his sit- 
uation, experienced all the tortures of a last conscious min- 
ute, when appalling death stared him in the face ; and he 
struggled with all the power of desperation and despair. 

The past was a hideous nightmare, glaring at him with 
eyes of flame. The present was a frenzy. The fu- 
ture was — but who shall contemplate the future yawning 
before such a man ! 

A single wild cry, suddenly arisen on the night, swept 
above him ; but he heard it not. His mind was now turned 
inward, upon his own ignoble, terrified, abject self. 

And only the stars, gazing coldly and silently down 
from the purple dome of sky, saw him sink and rise, sink 
and rise again — and in that fateful hour find his bed 
among the trailing grasses at the bottom of the bay. The 
fate he would have wrought upon another, was visited upon 
himself. At the very moment of his heinous exultation — 
of his anticipated triumph — justice, retribution and death 
claimed him for their own. 

The cry which had risen upon the night wind, came from 
the lips of the man on the flat. 

Deep in thought, apprehensive of no danger, Orlando 
Sedgewick had continued in moody contemplation of the 
night scene around him. It was strangely in harmony with 
his own feelings. The duty felt to be his, the disclosure of 
the outrage practiced on his father, the necessity of expos- 
ing the past to public view, the revival of painful events 
now obscured by time, bis doubts concerning Manley Clav* 


308 


UNION' DOWN 


ering, the impostor, his apprehensions regarding Naomi — 
all presented a dark and depressing field for thought, and 
weighed heavily upon him. 

He turned at length and looked toward the mainland. 
The lights still were gleaming from the house on the bluff. 
He leaped at once to a determination. 

“ I will delay no longer!” he cried half aloud. “I will 
know the worst at once — and do the best I know ! ” 

He walked toward the spot where he had moored the 
boat, not observing at first that it was missing; but 
almost immediately his wild cry of mingled surprise and 
alarm sounded on the air. 

He recoiled, with blood turned to ice by the swift realiza- 
tion of his awful situation. Alone at night upon a sand 
flat in the middle of the bay! Unable to swim! And 
without a boat, without so much as a straw, upon which to 
rely! And the water, now breaking over the grapnel 
which he had left high and dry upon the shore, disclosed 
the awful fact that the tide was flooding ! in brief time at 
longest would surge a fathom deep on the very sands on 
which he stood ! It all appealed to him with appalling 
distinctness. 

Involuntarily, a wild cry for help burst from his lips. He 
darted to the water’s edge and vainly strove to discover the 
missing boat. His foot caught upon the grapnel and threw 
him to his knees in the breaking waves. His hands closed 
upon the lax painter, and in a frenzy of dismay he drew it 
in. A glance at the cleanly severed end disclosed the 
knavery of which he had been made the victim. 

“ Merciful God ! ” he gasped, in accents of horror, staring 
at it with dilated eyes; “the rope has been cut with a 
knife! Heaven above! does the man live, who” — 

He broke off abruptly; dropped the tell-tale line; fell 
back from the wash of sea about his feet ; and, with hands 


SEA AND NIGHT. 


309 


upraised, with hueless face lifted to the silent heavens, he 
cried like one appalled by a sudden recollection : 

“ My dream ! my dream ! the scene of my dream ! The 
sea, the night, the hands and the faces! His face ! Her 
face ! Oh, God, has he done this? has he done this? ” 

It all came back to him at this direful moment — that ter- 
rible dream when first he slept beneath the roof of Marcus 
Wiseacre’s dwelling; that shrinking spot of sand in the 
heart of a midnight sea, that battle with wind and waves 
and inhuman hands and faces, and his final redemption 
from the perils by which he was surrounded. 

It all returned with appalling vividness ; but the latter rec- 
ollection aided him to overcome his momentary weakness, 
that deathly sensation which is the birth of such a moment 
and such a situation. 

“Was it in heaven? was it in heaven, indeed, that she 
appeared to me that night?” he groaned aloud. “Is it 
there — there only — that she may be mine? given to a love 
like mine! I cannot — Oh, God ! I cannot believe it! Thou 
wilt not thus repay my life-service! I have faith — faith in 
Thee and Thy mercy! My dream — my dream! I will 
combat, as in my dream, this seeming fate ! ” 

At such a time, man scarce knows what he thinks and 
says and does. It was the shadow only of a hope, that 
which arose in his mind; but Orlando Sedgewick seized 
upon it with all the desperation of wildest dismay. 

He rushed w r aist deep into the water, and again and again 
his deep voice rose upon the night in a cry for help. The 
.wind, as if in pitiless mockery, seized upon it and swept it 
seaward. The sound seemed to die on his very lips, as it 
had died in his dream. Yet again and again he called — 
his only resource; louder and louder, with power born of 
awakening despair; wilder and wilder, in the frenzy of 
resistless horror. 


310 


• UNION DOWN. 


The waters flooded higher and forced him to retreat. 
He turned to seek the sands which he had left. God save 
him ! there were no sands — only water, now ! The waves 
were breaking over every part of the flat. In the shallowest 
places the water was already ankle deep. An appalling, 
sickening weakness again overpowered him. He fell to his 
knees in the merciless tide, in the heartless sea. 

“Oh, God, must I die — die thus!” he groaned in 
despair, burying his face in his dripping hands. “Die in 
the very hour which should have witnessed the culmination 
of that endeavor which has shaped my life ! Die and leave 
unaccomplished all those w r orthy — Oh, God! God have 
mercy! Will no one hear! will no one hear! ” 

And to his feet he sprang again, and again his voice 
rolled forth in that agonized appeal for help. 

His eyes, smarting from the salt sea-water, were strained 
by his vain efforts to pierce the surrounding gloom. His 
voice grew hoarse from shouting, from calling out through 
the darkness which mocked him, from striving to rise above 
the rush and roar of the wind about him. His every effort 
seemed worse than vain. 

The tide was constantly rising. Death stared him in the 
face — the most awful of deaths ; that which occurs so near 
and yet so far from human habitation ; which might be so 
easily averted, could he make one human being hear his 
cry; that terrible death which is thrice terrible from the 
very nature of its gradual approach. 

The water in which he stood was now a foot deep — and 
steadily, mercilessly rising. Utterly unconscious of the 
chill of the waves which broke around him, overcome by the 
awful horror he could no longer sustain, Orlando Sedgewick 
fell upon his knees in the surging tide and prayed aloud. 

The lights still were gleaming from the windows of the 
house on the bluff. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“god above! what has this man done ! ” 

In the earlier darkness of that same evening, a girl, unsul- 
lied by sin, unworthy of shame, yet bowed by humiliation 
forced upon her, depressed by woe on which she had silently 
dwelt till the mind it filled had yielded under its persistent 
influence, wandered unnoticed from her home and sought 
the solitude of the open fields. 

Upon a girl of Naomi Wiseacre’s sensitive composition, 
the scandal which had resulted from her intimacy with, and 
her abrupt estrangement from, Manley Clavering, could have 
but one effect. The theme alone was sufficient to crush 
her. She shrank from notoriety as from guilt itself, and her 
sense of shame had become a mania. It was like guilt to 
her, this having her name defamed by idle and malicious 
tongues. She had no heart to go out of doors, save under 
cover of darkness ; she shrank from meeting friends, even, 
lest they secretly should question the virtue she had 
neither the will nor courage to assert. Into such a state of 
mind had Naomi Wiseacre worked herself; and in such a 
state the victim seeks but one poor relief — that of solitude. 

None of the Wiseacre family fairly realized her condition. 
They believed that it would improve with the gradual ces- 
sation of its cause. She was allowed the seclusion which 
she seemed to desire ; and so it happened that evening, that 
she was walking alone in the fields. That there she felt 
the least probability of meeting any whom she knew, evinces 

311 


312 


UNION DOWN 


her terrible stress of mental suffering, and reveals the peril- 
ous ground on which she was mentally moving. 

And she walked, that evening, like a woman in a trance. 
Only when the wind, sweeping by, had wound her dark 
woolen skirts about her limbs, tlid she briefly pause to clear 
them, seeming to emerge for the time from her moody cogi- 
tations. But her disconsolate face, as sadly sober as if 
from the cradle it had been stranger to a smile, never 
varied ; and never a tear dimmed the unnatural glitter of 
her mournful eyes. 

Her aimless steps were taking her toward the bay. 
Soon she stood upon the shore, at the very spot whereon, 
a brief time before, she had confronted Manley Clavering, 
and learned how thoughtlessly, if not heartlessly, she had 
been abused. 

With hands wound together in her lap, and her pale feat- 
ures drawn by inward suffering, she sat upon a stone and 
gazed at the dark sweep of sea tossing just below her. 
There now was in her eyes that same expression which 
Sedgewick had observed aboard the yacht. But then it had 
vanished, leaving behind a blush of shame and a look of 
terror ; while now it remained, steady and unchanging. 
She now could contemplate its terrible cause. It is in such 
unnatural states of mind that the unfortunate can welcome 
the restfulness of oblivion. 

She never knew how long she sat there, absorbed in 
thought, with the wild waves breaking on the shore below, 
and the wilder wind sweeping by her. She never knew 
how frequently the sounds of nature were augmented by an 
appealing cry, faint and vague from distance; and when she 
finally heard, she listened only vacantly, indifferently, as 
she might have listened to the cry of some night-bird cir- 
cling above her head. 

But suddenly she started to her feet. Her hands went 


GOD ABOVE ! WHA T HAS THIS MAN DONE ! ” 313 


impulsively to her breast, and her head was bent in an atti- 
tude of alarm and attention. Somewhat of the old-time 
expression began to show in her face, the old-time light to 
shine in her eyes. 

Again it came faintly to her ears — a cry from out of the 
darkness. It was no longer the scream of a night-bird. It 
had taken on new qualities while she listened; qualities 
which set her every nerve quivering, and sent her sluggish 
blood coursing like fire through her veins. 

It was a human cry, an appeal of despair, a voice from 
over the sea, a voice crying for help. It transfigured her — 
for, in alarm for another’s welfare, she for the moment was 
dead to her own misery. 

Again the cry came to her ears. She had lived too long 
near the sea and the flats to be doubtful of its meaning. 
She had lived too long near the sea to be unskilled in the 
art most needed in that hour. She went not for help — 
she herself was equal to the need. 

Catching her skirts from the ground, she ran rapidly 
along the shore to where was moored the boat in which, in 
happier days, she had been wont to row upon the bay. 
The oars were concealed beside the fence bordering the 
near upland. 

In far less time than is required to write it, she was toss- 
ing on the sea, her splendid figure bent to the struggle with 
wind and waves, her perfect arms straining hard at the oars, 
her grand face resolutely set, her own distress briefly sunk 
under this effort to save. 

She came to him through the darkness much as she had 
come that night in his dream. His saviour. More to him 
than was life itself. He took her place in the boat and 
rowed her back to the shore ; rowed with her seated close 
before him, her pale, sad face untouched by pride, unmoved 
by joy or exultation; rowed with sobs shaking his breast 


UNION DOWN. 


314 

and tears flooding his eyes ; yet never a word did he speak, 
could he speak — until they stood together in the starlight 
and on the upland. 

Then he held out his arms toward her. He was uncon- 
scious of cold, of the wet clothing which clung around him, 
of the chill of the night air and the sweeping wind. He 
knew only that she was there, what she was to him, and 
what she had done. 

He held out his arms toward her as if to take her hands. 
Her name, freighted with all his gratitude, all his love, rose 
from his lips through sobs beyond restraining. 

“Naomi! Naomi!” 

But the hands which Naomi raised were palms toward 
him, warning him away. She was shrinking from his touch, 
recoiling step by step as he approached, still with that ter- 
rible grief in her hueless face and tearless eyes. 

He read there only the old, agonizing story, the heart- 
sickening sign that she could not love him. She could do- 
and dare for him — brave the fury of winds and the peril of 
waves for his sake — but she could not love him. A cry of 
grief, a moan of despair, broke from him ; and he fell at her 
feet, wildly catching the folds of her skirt in his icy hands. 

“Do not repulse me! Do not turn from me now! Not 
in this hour! ” he cried, in accents of pitiful appeal. “Not 
after what you have done and dared for me ! Hear me 
once — hear me, I pray ! My life were lost but for you — is 
lost but for you ! If my love ” — 

“ Let me go ! Let me go ! ” 

Her pitiful moan silenced for a moment his heart-broken 
appeal. She trembled through all her limbs under his 
touch, shuddered from head to foot at the sound of his 
voice, and still strove to draw away. But her face was bent 
toward him, a face indescribable in its anguish ; and, though 
she gazed steadily at him, kneeling there at her feet in the 


GOD ABO VE ! WHA T HAS THIS MAN DONE ! ” 315 


very agony of despairing love, she saw him through those 
wild, tearless eyes only as one sees objects in the mists of 
dreams. 

“Not yet — oh, not yet!” he cried imploringly. “Hear 
me first ! If there be one on earth you love as I love you, 
hear me ! I no longer can endure my misery — ‘the misery 
of my doubts, the misery of seeing you as I have lately seen 
you.” 

“ Let me go ! Oh, please let me go ! ” 

“Naomi! Naomi!” 

“Will you not let ” — 

“ I know I have done nothing to make me worthy of you, 
to have won your affection ; but I love you ! I love you as 
man can love but once in all his life ! ” 

“No, no!” The words were thrilled by mingled grief 
and pity. “Not that! Don’t tell me that! I so have 
feared it — so have prayed that it might not come to this ! ” 

“ Naomi ! ” 

“ I have tried to warn you from it — to turn you from ” — 

“Warn me! I wish no warning! I want the truth — the 
truth ! ” pleaded Sedgewick, completely broken by his late 
suffering and present surcharge of feeling. “ If you can 
give me nothing for my love — tell me so in words, not 
alone in actions ! If I am distasteful to you — if you can- 
not love me ” — 

“ Love you — you ! ” 

A moan, uttered as if from the very depths of wretched- 
ness, broke from Naomi’s lips as his flood of words poured 
in her ears. The anguish in her face was mingled with 
remorse and despair when he spoke of truth, of love for 
him ; but never a tear showed in her wide, dilated eyes. 

“Love you! ” she repeated wildly. “It is not that! it is 
not that ! ” 

“Not that! What then?” cried Sedgewick, with a grain 


316 


UNION DOWN 


of hope, his arms clinging with unconscious fervor to her 
waist. “If I am worthy — if my love is not” — 

“ Hush!” 

She bent lower, till her horrified face was close to his, 
her hands grasping his arms in a piteous effort to break 
their hold. 

“ It is not that ! ” she cried, in tones whose awful distress 
pierced his heart and soul. “ It is I — I, who am 
unworthy ! ” 

“Unworthy! You — you!” . 

“ Pity me ! pity me — but do not love ! ” moaned she, 
shrinking and cowering from his grasp, and from the awful 
face now upturned to hers. “I am not for you — not fit 
for you ! ” 

“ My God ! Naomi — Naomi ” — 

“You should wed one whose name is above reproach, 
unstained by shame! It is I — I, who am unworthy! My 
name is no longer — Oh, let me go! let me go! Let me 
hide myself from all who know me — where none can point 
at me and speak of me with — Oh, let me go ! please let me 
go! It is I who am unworthy!” 

It was needless to plead longer for release, for the hands 
which held her had loosed their hold, and now hid the hor- 
ror which had risen over Sedgewick’s ghastly face. He 
had applied too deep a significance to her words, spoken in 
the madness which possessed her, uttered by the over- 
wrought imagination which had brought her to this pass. 
He heard, recoiled, shuddering in every fiber, and the dark- 
ness of the night seemed to sweep between his face and 
hers. For her words had recalled with hideous distinctness 
the woman of his dream — and the face of that woman had 
been black! 

The terrible significance of it all was like a nightmare; 
was more than he could endure. With the groan of one 


GOD ABOVE ! WHAT HAS THIS MAN DONE!” 317 


spirit-crushed, he buried his face in his hands and fell 
prone upon the ground whereon he had been kneeling. 
For the moment he felt that she was lost to him forever; 
that an impassable chasm, an infinite gulf, had opened its 
hideous jaws between them. 

Then, something that was grander, more heroic, more 
humane, burst to a flame within him, and in an instant he 
was upon his feet, her loved name ringing from his lips. 

“Naomi! Naomi!” 

But only the night wind heard his words, only the dark- 
ness greeted his searching eyes. She was gone ; had van- 
ished in that moment when, lying there, he had been 
crushed by the truth he believed her to have uttered. 

In the distance rose the grim, vague outlines of the 
beetling bluff; the outlines of a house, indistinct against 
the sweep of starry sky — a house with lights still gleaming 
from its windows. Back upon Sedgewick surged the events 
of the past year, the knavery of the impostor who had 
usurped his place. An oath, hoarse and terrible, burst 
from his lips. The fire of awakened fury, the murderous 
light of bitter and implacable vengeance, gleamed in his eyes. 

“ God ! God above ! what has this man done ! ” 

For the time, he was dead to all save the memory of him 
and his doings; dead to all save the spirit of vengeance 
which possessed him. With face distorted by passion, with 
every nerve and muscle strained to its utmost tension, he 
rushed away over the damp and silent fields in the direc- 
tion of the Wiseacre dwelling. The knavery of which he 
now believed Manley Clavering guilty, was sufficient to 
have hardened to flint the heart of any man. 

Upon the angular steps of the house, and gazing anx- 
iously through the darkness, stood Marcus Wiseacre. The 
rays from the lamp within lighted the face and figure of the 
approaching man. 


318 


UNION DOWN 


“Good heavens!” gasped Mr. Wiseacre, when he beheld 
him. “ My — my dear Sedgewick ! What is this ? What 
is wrong ? ” 

Sedgewick made no answer; would have passed by and 
into the house, but the other seized him by the arm and 
detained him. 

“Good Lord! You are saturated — wet to the skin! 
Where have you been ? ” 

“ In the bay ! ” cried Sedgewick hoarsely, fiercely ; think- 
ing only of Manley Clavering and the misdeeds he believed 
he had committed. 

“In the bay!” echoed Mr. Wiseacre, his expansive coun- 
tenance grown very pale. “What do you mean? Why 
this excitement? Have you seen anything of Naomi?” 

“I have just left her. She should be here soon. Do not 
detain me longer.” 

Poor, simple, tender-hearted Mr. Wiseacre was quite 
awed and alarmed by Sedgewick’s terrible appearance ; yet, 
clinging to his arm, he managed to persist faintly : 

“Tell me the matter ! What new disaster confronts us? 
I am already overcome with grief for Clavering — for his 
son and daughter” — 

“ Clavering ! ” burst hoarsely from Sedgewick’s quivering 
lips. “ Clavering ! What of him ? ” 

“ Have you not heard ? ” 

“ Heard ! Heard what ? ” 

“ Of his shock ! He is dying — stricken by paralysis 
this” — 

He spoke no more ; for Sedgewick, with a horrified, inco- 
herent cry, his face changed as if by the passing of Death’s 
own hand across it, had torn his arm from the other’s grasp 
and rushed up the stairs to his chamber. 

“ Dying ! — dying ! My father dying! Oh, God! let 

him live — live to look once more on me with conscious 


GOD ABOVE ! WHAT HAS THIS MAN DONE !” 319 


eyes ! Preclude not, in this last hour, my life-long purpose ! 
Direct me — oh, God ! direct me and lead me in the path of 
duty ! In this awful crisis I cease to be myself ! ” 

Through choking sobs the words were given utterance, 
as with frenzied hand he stripped the wet garments from 
his person and clothed himself anew. The terrible events 
of the past hour, the turn which affairs had taken, those 
affairs on which he had dwelt so long and arduously in the 
cause of justice and the welfare of all concerned, their sud- 
den convergence and the necessity of immediate action — 
all filled his mind with a confusing riot. He scarce knew 
what he did, and knew not what to do. 

Yet when, after hastening without a word from the Wise- 
acre dwelling, he mounted the steps at the house on the 
bluff, he betrayed only by his drawn features and deathly 
paleness the nature of his feelings. A forced composure 
was upon him, a calmness acquired during his hurried walk. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“ HOW ARE YOU TO WIPE OUT THE PAST YONDER ! ” 

Yet one may enter, with pale and strained countenance, 
the house of anticipated death, and create but little surprise 
and less comment. It was nearly eleven o’clock; but, with- 
out so much as a knock to signify his coming, Orlando 
Sedgewick opened the door and stepped into the hall. 

Clara and the village physician were seated in the 
library. The former at once observed and joined Sedge- 
wick, giving him her hand. 

‘ I am so glad you have come,” she said frankly, raising 
her tearful eyes to his. “ I have wished that you might.” 

Sedgewick merely bowed his acknowledgments. He 
felt cold and heart-sick when he recalled the pledge he had 
made her, the duty which bound him to her welfare, her 
happiness, her love — love for the man whom he believed 
to so have sinned against Naomi Wiseacre, love for the 
man whom he believed to have attempted his life. 

“Briefly tell me the worst,” he said huskily, striving to 
read in her face the fullness of her misfortune, the limit of 
information which had come to her. 

“ It is quickly told,” said Clara, suppressing a sob. 
“There is no hope of my father’s recovery.” 

“ Yet he lives ? ” 

“Yes; and may, for several days, the doctor says. But 
he is unconscious, and we are given little hope of a 
change.” 


320 


HO W ARE YOU TO WIPE OUT THE PAST!” 321 


“Were you with him when he was taken ill?” 

“ Not in the room,” replied Clara, and thereupon related 
the particulars. “ Manley, too, was absent,” she added. 
“ He returned only about an hour ago.” 

Sedgewick’s face did not vary by so much as a shadow. 
It was like marble in its immobility. But his mind had 
reverted to that hour upon the flat, to that distressful scene 
with Naomi. His control of self during these moments 
was something more than human ; for to the man of whom 
she spoke he attributed all his suffering, all his lost hopes. 

“Where is — your brother?” he asked, forcing the latter 
words to his lips. He could not call him by a name which 
should have been unsullied, and it was no time in which to 
undeceive her. 

“With my father, who has been removed to his room. 
Will you go there ? ” she asked, with a look almost of 
pleading. 

Sedgewick bowed. 

“ In the room yonder ? ” 

“Yes; I will go with you.” 

“ Wait,” said he, restraining her. “ Rejoin your friend, 
the physician. I will go alone.” 

She regarded him with surprise, somewhat with awe, which 
he observed. 

“ It may be better so,” he explained softly. “ Do not 
forget what I have promised — and do not fear.” 

Clara said not a word, but, with a look of infinite affec- 
tion, turned and rejoined the physician. 

Breathless, and with hands unconsciously clenched, 
Orlando Sedgewick walked softly down the hall and paused 
on the threshold of the sick man’s apartment. The lamp 
in the room was burning dimly. Its rays were shaded from 
the bed. Yet he could plainly see his stricken father, 
lying unconscious, and as white as the pillow on which his 


322 


UNION DOWN 


head was resting; he could plainly hear his faint but 
labored breathing, sounding on the stillness of the room. 
Brief observation told him that time only would produce a 
change. 

This alone was not what Sedgewick saw. 

Manley Clavering was kneeling on the floor beside the 
bed. He held, in both his own, one thin, senseless hand of 
the man whom he had so outrageously deceived. His fair, 
handsome face was as pale as his who silently observed 
him. Tears were glittering in his eyes, were stealing 
slowly down his cheeks ; and the low, tremulous sobs which 
shook his bowed figure told of long and only partly spent 
emotions. 

Minutes passed, yet Orlando Sedgewick stood motionless 
in the doorway, his eyes fixed upon him, his features still 
set and stern. If his heart cried out in bitterness, in con- 
demnation, in revenge ; if his soul revolted in horror of this 
man; if he saw in him the cause of all his late suffering, 
the ruiner of his life-long hopes, the outrager of a love to 
which outrage even could fix no boundary — he in no way 
betrayed it. His will was now sovereign over his passions. 
Never, in all his life, had he so risen in command of self. 

A half-subdued moan rose from the man kneeling by the 
bed. 

“Will he never know? Oh, God! will he never know?” 
came, through renewed sobs and tears, the tremulous mur- 
^ mur. “ Oh, the past ! the past ! Could I only have first 
wiped out the unworthy past ! ” 

It was the cry of a heart that was breaking under its 
sorrow — under its remorse. 

Sedgewick heard. A strange expression crossed his face. 
His lips twitched convulsively. He softly approached the 
kneeling man and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

Manley Clavering looked up and saw him. He impuls- 


“HOW ARE YOU TO WIPE OUT THE PAST!” 328 

ively brushed the tears from his eyes and rose to his 
feet. 

“ I did not hear you coming,” he said softly, and offered 
his hand. “You are very welcome.” 

Sedgewick stared amazedly at him. This was not the 
greeting, not the aspect, of a man whose hand had severed 
the line securing his boat ; who, a brief time before, had 
left him to drown in the rising waters of the bay; who, even 
now, should have believed him dead. To have maintained 
control of self at such a moment, when a presumable appa- 
rition had suddenly arisen from the floor, were impossible ; 
and not an indication*" of amazement, even, on beholding 
him, had showed in Manley Clavering’s wet eyes. 

Orlando Sedgewick did not accept the proffered hand. 
Still with features that were like marble in their whiteness, 
with eyes which would penetrate the very soul of the man 
on whom they were fixed, he slowly raised his arm and 
pointed ominously in the direction of the Wiseacre dwelling. 

“ How are you to wipe out the past — yonder ! ” he 
demanded slowly, his subdued tones resonant with feeling. 

“ What — what do you mean ? ” Manley faltered faintly, 
drawing back from the countenance before him. 

“ The ruin you have wrought there ! The outrage of 
confiding innocence, the desecration of a pure and ” — 

“ Stop ! ” 

A frown had leaped to Manley Clavering’s face. There 
could be but one meaning to Sedgewick’s low, terribly 
spoken words ; yet the other had cut him short, and now 
commanded hoarsely : 

“ Tell me plainly what you mean ! ” 

And Orlando Sedgewick told him in a single word. 

Manley recoiled with a gasp. 

“You wrong me!” he cried, in a thrilling whisper; a 
whisper in which, despite their solemn surroundings, impuls- 


324 


UNION DOWN. 


ive anger and indignation were not entirely lacking. “ On 
my life, you wrong me ! ” 

“ Wrong you ! ” said Sedgewick sternly, doubtfully, yet 
with a gleam of hope firing his ominous eyes. 

“Yes, wrong me!” repeated Manley, with terrible earn, 
estness. “Whatever impulse may first have led me into 
erring there, died when I fairly realized how deep must be 
such baseness ! No man on earth to-day regards Naomi 
Wiseacre more reverently than I! You doubt me — your 
face tells me that you doubt ! ” 

He dropped impulsively to his knee, and laid one hand on 
the senseless breast of the man against whom he had 
sinned. 

“ Hark you ! ” cried he, lifting his own ghastly face to 
Sedgewick. “As I hope this dying man may live to hear 
me plead for pardon of a sin, compared with which my 
wrong of her sinks to insignificance, I speak the truth ! If I 
have indeed been guilty of sin against her, I swear that it 
has been in thought only. Sedgewick, Sedgewick ! on my 
life, you wrong me ! ” 

There was no doubting such words, so spoken and at 
such a time. The cloud which had enveloped Sedgewick 
was dispelled as if by a sweep of the Divine Hand. He 
did not seek for explanation of Naomi’s wild utterances. 
He could not now see the man, kneeling there at his feet, 
for tears had blinded his eyes. 

But he had heard — heard the words which gave her back 
to him in all her innocence, in all her purity ; and, with a 
cry, half subdued, yet which revealed at once his heart and 
his late suffering, he reeled backward to the wall, his head 
buried in his hands, his powerful figure shaken by sobs 
beyond restraint. 

Manley Clavering rose to his feet and stared at him for a 
moment. Then he glanced half anxiously at the man upon 


HOW ARE YOU TO WIPE OUT THE PAST ! ” 325 


the bed, much as if he feared to have disturbed him. And 
then he went and laid his hand on Sedgewick’s arm. 

“On my life, I’m sorry!” he said chokingly, with tears of 
genuine regret in his splendid eyes. “I’m sorry for your 
sake — sorry for hers. I ask your pardon — I will ask hers. 
I have not meant to be so unkind, so unmanly. I have 
been blinded by my own thoughtlessness. Last night I 
found my level, and I — I ” — 

He broke down under a sob, which he had vainly striven 
to repress. 

Sedgewick lifted his face — and what a face! It was 
transfigured by the spirit which -inspired him. He under- 
stood what Manley Clavering meant, knew what he would 
have said that morning to Clara. Subduing his emotions, 
he took him by the arm and led him back to the bedside. 

“ Are you as sorry for these unkindnesses,” he asked 
slowly, and then pointed to the dying man; “as for the sin 
you have committed against him ? ” 

Manley, growing even paler, turned and looked at him. 

“What do you mean?” he asked faintly. 

“This,” and Sedgewick’s chiding was as gentle as that of 
a mother. “Your place is not here! — not' as a son at a 
father’s death-bed! I am the man you have thought to be 
dead in Hong Kong ! ” 

The very gentleness of the disclosure rendered it forcible. 

For all of a minute Manley Clavering did not move a 
muscle. Still staring Sedgewick in the face, he stood like a 
man transmuted to stone, while the full import of the reve- 
lation slowly permeated his dazed and reeling brain. The 
past year was reviewed l\ke a life-panorama sweeping 
by him — the year of his transgressions. Yet he had not a 
thought of approaching condemnation, of censure, of punish- 
ment. The hope of pardon did not once occur to him. 
Even the man before him had only arvague place in his mind. 


326 


UNION DOWN 


One thought only was paramount — the terrible reali- 
zation that his last resource, his highest expression of 
repentance and remorse, had suddenly been snatched away, 
irrevocably perverted. His dazed, vacant eyes returned to 
the man upon the bed. A long, tremulous shudder shook 
him from head to foot. Then his hands went to his face, 
his head fell to his breast, and he broke forth in sobs and 
tears, weeping as children weep in their abandonment to 
grief insuperable. 

“ Peace ! ” said Sedgewick, gently. “ I do not in- 
tend”— 

“ Oh, God ! Oh, God ! ” moaned the unfortunate young 
man, hearing not a word, shaken like a leaf by his despair. 
“ It is now too late ! It is now too late ! ” 

“ What is now too late ? What is now too late ?” ques- 
tioned Sedgewick, holding him by the shoulders. 

“Confession! Confession! You do not know — can- 
not know! Oh, God, that I might have spoken ere I knew 
of this ! It is now too late ! too late to take the first step 
toward reparation — too late to partly clear myself in his 
eyes — and in hers ! ” 

He spoke not a word of the man before him ; he had not 
a thought of asking pardon. With sentiments which may 
hardly be imagined, Orlando Sedgewick waited till his 
stress of despair was partly spent, then bade him lift his 
head. And he pointed toward the room in which Clara 
Clavering was seated. 

“Hark you!’’ said he, gently, yet with gravity approach- 
ing sternness. “There is one beneath this roof, who, at 
such a time as this, demands our gravest consideration. 
She has raised you above yourself, exalted you, given you 
a sanctuary in her innocent and trusting heart. She has 
grief enough for the present. If you are a man — and I 
now begin to have faith that you are — you will consent to 


HOW ARE YOU TO WIPE OUT THE PAST!” 327 


follow my instructions. It is a duty which most becomes 
you now ! ” 

Without raising his eyes, Manley Clavering answered 
three words only. 

“ I do consent.” 

“By no w r ord or action, then, let her know the truth. 
Retain me here as a friend only. For the present, you must 
appear to be just what you have appeared — this man’s son. 
Be assured that I understand you more clearly than you 
imagine, and you may wrong me more gravely than ever, if 
you disregard my present wishes. There is much to pass 
between you and me. Will you bide my time?” 

“I am entirely at your disposal,” was the subdued and 
humble rejoinder; but the eyes of the speaker, who stood 
like one dazed, were turned to the dying man on the bed. 

“I believe that I may rely upon you,” said Sedgewick, 
quietly. “ Remember that outwardly our relations must 
remain unchanged. Be guarded lest you betray yourself. 
And be assured that” — 

He stopped abruptly. His ear had caught the sound of 
footsteps in the hall, and almost immediately Clara 
appeared at the door. 

“You are wanted outside,” she said softly, approaching 
Sedgewick and regarding him rather anxiously. 

“ By whom ? ” asked he, in some surprise, yet at once 
accompanying her from the sick-chamber. 

“Two of the Wiseacre girls have been sent to learn 
where you last saw Naomi.” 

“ Naomi ! ” 

“Yes. They say you mentioned to their father the fact 
of having seen her. She has not been at home since dusk, 
and it now is nearly midnight.” 

An expression of alarm had risen over Sedgewick’s face, 
and he hastened to join Ruth and Leah at the door. 


328 


UNION DOWN 


He had but poor information to give the weeping girls, 
the nature of which may easily be imagined. But he 
recalled the last words which he had heard Naomi speak, 
and now began to surmise the real character of her 
disorder. 

Delaying only to briefly add to his instructions to 
Manley, and to learn from the physician that the night 
would probably witness no change in Randolph Clavering’s 
condition, he rejoined the Wiseacre girls and accompanied 
them home. 

They went by the way of the fields and the shore, earn- 
estly searching, and frequently calling the name of the miss- 
ing girl; but search and cries alike proved vain. 

And the sun of the morrow and the morrow and the 
morrow, rose and set upon two houses bowed under afflic- 
tion : the one, sad and silent, while its inmates watched 
beside the bed of him who lingered unconscious on Death’s 
dark threshold ; the other, agonized by an even more dread- 
ful uncertainty — that concerning the fate of their missing 
loved one. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE DOVE. 

A blazing June sun, now set by half an hour, had left 
his burning kiss on Boston’s pavements ; the effects of his 
creeping journey through more than fourteen hours of 
cloudless sky were everywhere manifest. Though the glare 
was gone from the faces of the buildings and the arid high- 
ways, their feverish surfaces seemed to exude a heat of 
their own, which wavered doubtfully upward through the 
tremulous atmosphere. Sidewalk and 'street, park and 
square, burned as if from fever. Roofs were blistered, and 
concrete walks yielded in dents and dimples under the 
heels of pedestrians. Every flat surface on which the fiery 
sun of that long June day had lingered was too warm to 
touch, and seemed to give forth a heated sigh of relief that 
the day was finally over and the coolness of night 
approaching. 

In the lower sections of the city the heat had been most 
intense, and the fever now was most persistent. It could 
be felt on walls and doorsteps and fences. The timbers of 
the wharves were too hot for the loungers. The decks of 
the vessels in the harbor were oozing and blistered. People 
turning homeward from their day’s labor were divested of 
superfluous clothing. Hats were carried instead of worn, 
that no stray breath of air should be lost to baked brains 
and burning brows. The cars ran packed, to the torture of 
panting and dripping horses. 

329 


330 


UNION DOWN 


In the heart of all this moving, stewing, sighing human- 
ity, one solitary woman would scarce be noticed. On the 
uppermost rail of a fence dividing the street from the docks, 
she hung by both arms, weary and motionless. Her gaze 
was fixed on the waters of the harbor, where they made up 
between the wharves to a point directly below her. Despite 
their dead-blue dirtiness, they possessed, after such a day, 
no little attraction. To her the attraction was almost resist- 
less. There was refuge from the heat without, from the 
fire within. 

She had hung there for some time, yet no one seemed to 
observe her. None noticed that the glow which inflamed 
her cheeks must be from an inward fire; a fire which had 
consumed every vestige of moisture from her delicate skin, 
left her lips dry and parched, and her flesh burning from 
fever. None saw that her steadfast eyes were vacant, yet 
unnatural and distressed even in their vacancy. None 
knew whence she came, how she came, or whither she was 
going. None cared. It was a day of universal fever. 

Stay ! 

One there was who saw her and wondered. One of 
those restless, inquisitive, eager yet idle particles of human- 
ity, whom neither heat nor cold drive within doors — a 
child. A child with a halo of golden hair. A mite of a 
thing with wide, earnest blue eyes, blue like the sky 
between great banks of snow-white clouds. The child had 
espied the woman gazing into the water. The woman 
seemed lost for something to do. In the mind of the child 
this established an affinity between them. Like misery, 
idleness likes company. 

Yet it was some little time before she ventured to intrude 
upon the gazer. She began by standing on the curbing ten 
feet away, and curiously and soberly regarding her. That 
the woman did not move, caused her to wonder the more, 


THE DOVE. 


331 


and at length to approach her, indirectly, edging along by 
the fence to get a look at her face. Better than you or I, a 
child can read hearts by faces ; and the face of the woman 
encouraged the child to speak. 

“Was you looking for the fishes?” she asked sociably, in 
a shrill, piping voice. 

The woman started slightly, like one alarmed, afraid, and 
turned her dry, burning eyes on the innocent face of her 
questioner. While it dispelled her alarm, it seemed also to 
affect her with a tremor, which shook her from head to foot. 
Perhaps, in her distracted mind, the innocent face with its 
heavenly eyes inspired a vague remembrance of another 
face and another child ; an appreciation of something lost, 
something shrouded in a fiery mist like that of fevered 
dreams. Had the child been an adult, the woman would 
have fled. As it was, she merely looked at her. 

“Was you looking for the fishes?” repeated Nancy Bran- 
don’s dove, laughing; and she stooped to peer for an 
instant between the rails at the rippleless water. “I’ve 
seen ’em swimming down there ; but only little bits of ones, - 
about so long. I’ve never seen none, of the big ones, 
like the men bring up in the boats. Was you looking for 
the fishes ? ” 

And the child looked up at the woman. 

The woman slowly shook her head, and seemed to make 
an effort to speak; but no sound more audible than a sigh 
came from her parched lips. 

The dove ceased laughing, and her eyes widened in won- 
der, not un mingled with pity. 

“ I guess you don’t feel very good, do you ? ” piped she, with 
sympathizing shrillness. “What makes you look so sad?” 

“Do — do I look sad?” The words came from her dry 
throat and mouth in a slow, husky whisper, as devoid of 
interest as if she had spoken of another. 


332 


UNION DOWN 


“Awful!” and the dove nodded dubiously, at the sound 
of the woman’s voice. “And your eyes is just as bright as 
can be — as bright as my doll’s eyes. What makes ’em?” 

The woman again shook her head, and now allowed her 
arm to fall from the rail and her hand to rest upon the 
shoulder of the child. Even in our dreams and our mental 
wanderings, we are partly actuated by that nature in which 
the body of man is so deeply rooted. There was in the 
child something which acted on the woman as nothing else 
under the sun could have acted at that moment. But she 
did not speak, only looked at her with those dry, doubtful 
eyes. 

“But my doll’s eyes is made of beads — black, shiny 
beads — which ’counts for hers being bright,” the dove hast- 
ened to explain, piping out the words with ludicrous earn- 
estness. “And her cheeks is painted red — most as red as 
yours ! Is your cheeks painted ? ” 

“Are they red?” said the woman, faintly; and her hand 
glided about the neck of the child, and she leaned heavily 
against the fence. 

“Awful red!” said the dove, looking up with augmented 
awe and pity. “And your hand is hot — awful hot !” 

“I am on fire within.” 

This was beyond the dove’s understanding, but she ven- 
tured doubtfully : 

“I guess you are tired.” 

“Yes — I am — tired.” 

“Why don’t you go home?” 

Home ! The word seemed to affect the woman 
strangely, for she drew away from the fence and gazed 
about with a look of pitiful uncertainty. Then her dry 
eyes returned to the child, and her parched lips began to 
tremble. Physical nature was rapidly approaching its low- 
est ebb. 


THE DOVE. 


333 


“Can’t — can’t you give me some water?” she asked 
faintly, with an effort, 

“To drink?” queried the dove. 

“Yes. I am on fire within. I — I am dying — for a 
drink ! ” 

The dove was doubtful for a moment, then she took the 
woman’s hand and piped encouragingly : 

“ I can get you some up to the shop. Gran’ther’ll give 
you a drink.” 

“ Where ? Who ? ” came the vacant queries. 

“Just up there,” and the child pointed up an adjoining 
street. “Just to that little door, where them three wooden 
balls is sticking out. Come — I’ll help you ! ” 

Even a little child may lead us. 

The woman’s steps were slow and uncertain. Once she 
seemed about to fall, but the support of the child steadied 
her. And so they went, woman and child, over the dry and 
heated pavements, up the dingy and humble street, until 
they reached the door of Nathan Vance’s shop. Here the 
woman paused doubtfully, swaying a little, like one faint — 
and then the child had drawn her in. 

Nancy Brandon saw them enter, and hurried forward in 
surprise. The dove hastened to explain. 

“ A lady, mamma, who wants a drink of water. I guess 
she’s tired, for she ” — 

But Nancy had reached them, and gently checked the 
child. A glance at the woman had revealed that, though 
dusty and soiled of dress, she was not of the lower classes ; 
and it had told her, too, that there was something wrong. 

“Get the water,” she said quickly to her daughter; then, 
putting forth her hand to aid the stranger to a chair, she 
asked, with friendly solicitude: “Are you ill, lady?” 

The stranger made no answer, though she seemed to 
hear. Her vacant stare into the dimness of the narrow 


334 


UNION DOWN 


shop doubtfully sought the speaker’s face. Then, without 
a moan, without a sigh even, to presage the departure of 
her abnormal consciousness, she collapsed completely and 
pitched forward upon the floor at Nancy Brandon’s feet. 

Alas! Poor Naomi! 

It will be well with thee that the past few days will for- 
ever be a blank in returning memory. It will be well with 
thee for this brief period of bitter experience, for it will 
teach thee that conscious virtue should have no ear for the 
reviler’s tongue ; and the memory of this past shall serve 
only to sweeten the calm of thy after years. It will be well, 
too, if to one only of those who could decry thee may be 
administered a salutary rebuke, even though they can never 
understand thee. 

“Heavens!” exclaimed Nancy, in alarm. “She has 
fainted ! Bring me the water — quick ! ” 

The fall of Naomi speedily brought Nathan Vance from 
the rear of the shop. 

“What’s up? what’s up?” wheezed he, quite paradox- 
ically, his finger trembling over the opening of his silver 
tube. “What’s up, I say?” 

“A lady has fainted,” cried Nancy, kneeling at Naomi’s 
side. “ Good heavens, father ; she is burning up with 
fever ! ” 

“Sunstruck!” wheezed Nathan, laconically. 

“ Worse than that. She is in a raging fever.” 

“ Send for the ambulance.” 

But Nancy Brandon shook her head. 

“Run and ask Dr. Fabian to come over here,” she said 
to her daughter, who speedily left the shop. “ If I am any 
judge, this woman is in no condition to be moved.” 

“Moved!” exclaimed the pawnbroker. “What else 
would you do? ” 

“Put her to bed,” Nancy answered decisively. “The 


THE DOVE. 


335 


poor thing needs sisterly care, I can tell you. Help me 
lift her to the lounge.” 

Not without a wheezy expostulation, though Nathan 
Vance was far from being a cold-hearted man, he assisted 
Nancy to remove the sick woman to the rear of the shop, 
and she straightway began to loosen Naomi’s clothing. 

“ She is not a common woman,” she explained to Nathan, 
who stood dubiously near by; “ and there is something back 
of her being about in this condition. Look at her face and 
hands, poor thing ! One can lose nothing by befriending 
her. Think how I have prayed that Ben might not be with- 
out friends in such an hour. If from no dearer incentive, I 
would do this in memory of Ben.” 

In memory of Ben! So be it, Nancy Brandon P The 
God who gave thee thy tender, womanly heart, and made 
thee eager to repay one good turn with another, did not 
blindly direct those fevered feet over thy threshold. Thy 
reward shall be dear to thee, indeed; it shall be sweeter 
than gold, more precious than jewels. 

And Nancy Brandon felt the first touch of this divine 
bestowal, when, watching through the still hours of the 
night at the bedside of the stricken woman, Naomi Wise- 
acre, tossing in the delirium of fever, moaned in accents of 
piteous appeal the name of Orlando Sedgewick. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 

This tale is too near to its conclusion to devote many of 
its few remaining pages to distressful scenes ; the hand 
that writes is fain to pen more cheerful pictures. 

And, indeed, it were vain to attempt to describe the dis- 
tress which filled the Wiseacre dwelling during the days of 
doubt concerning the fate of Naomi. There are experi- 
ences in life to which words can give no faithful color. In 
those days, also, Sedgewick showed himself to be a man of 
reason and discretion, counseling his afflicted friends 
wisely, and diverting them from those impulsive steps 
which might subsequently give the circumstances undesira- 
ble publicity. 

Mr. Wiseacre, whose expressions of distress would utterly 
defy description, was for immediately dragging the entire 
harbor in search of his daughter’s body ; but Sedgewick, 
who had at length divined the nature of Naomi’s disorder, 
the reason of her aversion of acquaintances, and the prob- 
able aberration which had led her to seek strange scenes 
and faces, happily dissuaded him. 

“ Be not hasty,” was his advice. “ There is nothing to 
be gained by impulsive action. Of one fact we already 
may be assured — no person in the town, where she is 
well known, is informed of her whereabouts, else word would 
be speedily sent you. It will be folly, then, to immediately 
create a sensation over her disappearance, since none of 

33G 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 


337 


your neighbors are better able to act than yourselves. Let 
people, for a brief time at least, imagine her here at home ; 
for I believe that, if she is still alive, news of her will soon be 
forthcoming.” 

This occurred on the morning following Naomi’s disap- 
pearance, and the Wiseacre family were led to abide by Mr. 
Sedgewick’s advice. 

On the same day, John Godbold’s dead body was dis- 
covered upon the beach, which fact, together with the sud- 
den and hopeless illness of Randolph Clavering, provided 
fund enough for gossip and diverted attention from the 
Wiseacre household. 

On the same evening, Orlando Sedgewick made a long 
call on Margaret Dawson, informing her of the turn of 
affairs at the house on the bluff, and confiding to her the 
nature of his wishes. That he left her weeping, as only 
they can weep who feel the end of a long and heart- 
breaking journey to be near, evinces the character of his 
intentions. 

Two days later there came, to his intense surprise at its 
source, the information so much desired — a letter from 
Nancy Brandon, recounting those circumstances already 
made known to the reader. It imparted the bare facts 
only, however, that the strange lady, who, in her delirium, 
had repeatedly called his name, was still deranged by her 
illness and in a critical condition. 

The effect of this letter upon Sedgewick and the rest may 
well be imagined. To him it seemed like the Almighty’s 
sanction of those unselfish purposes which had inspired him. 
Constrained from going to her, he indited a long letter to 
Nancy Brandon ; and by the earliest train Mrs. Wiseacre 
and Leah departed for the city. It was then made gener- 
ally known that Naomi was ill at the house of a friend in 
Boston, and that her mother and sister were away to care 


338 


UNION DOWN. 


for her. Thus the affair was divested of its more sensa- 
tional elements, and to Sedgewick there came by each mail 
the eagerly awaited letter which kept him informed of her 
condition. 

Meanwhile the stricken man at the house on the bluff lin- 
gered unconscious on the dark threshold, the closing of 
whose silent portal was hourly drawing nearer. Already 
the likeness of death, his faint breathing was watched 
by the loving eyes of those who, realizing the inevitable, 
yearned for one last conscious word from his gray, blood- 
less lips. 

But the word never came. 

Perhaps it would have been better, could he have real- 
ized the whole truth ; put forth his hand and taken that of 
the son who had so earnestly hoped for some expression of 
that repentance of which he had yet to learn ; and have 
forgiven, too, the humbled man who had deceived him, 
and whose bitterest punishment was to be the recollection 
that Randolph Clavering had never known him as he was. 

Or perhaps justice demanded that the keenest pang of 
earthly retribution should be rendered, when, gazing at the 
page whereon he read Orlando Sedgewick’s name, he divined 
his identity and the deception we have pictured — a dis- 
covery which had killed; when the errors of his life swept 
up like a flash of fire before him, and he felt the touch of 
Death’s cold hand upon his heart ; when he realized what 
had been, what was, and what he must leave behind him — 
perhaps justice demanded that this should be his last con- 
scious moment on earth. 

The breath came faint and fainter still ; the pulse beat 
slow and slower ; and five days from that on which he was 
stricken down, and just as the last rays of the setting sun 
lingered for a moment on the roof and tower of the house 
on the bluff, much as if the Divine hand were at length 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 


339 


outstretched in forgiveness and benediction, the tolling of 
the bells throughout the town informed the people that 
their most honored and respected fellow-townsman was 
removed from among them — that Randolph Clavering 
was dead. At the cost of peace and happiness, he had 
lived respected, and had died r*espected. And that was 
all. 

Following the instructions of Sedgewick, who, through 
all, had maintained his assumption of a friend only at the 
house on the bluff, Manley Clavering decided that the 
funeral and burial should be private ; and the son, bowed 
by a knowledge of the past, beheld his father laid away 
without ostentation and unworthy laudation. Aught else 
would have grated harshly on his sense of propriety. 

That same evening, after Clara had retired and the house 
was still, he seated himself at his father’s desk and exam- 
ined its contents. Then it was that he became assured 
that what he so had desired to bring about, had been in 
part at least accomplished — that Randolph Clavering had 
died a repentant man. Thrice through, with tearful eyes 
and grateful heart, he read his father’s confession and 
instructions ; and from that hour the clouds which had 
shadowed his inner life began to disperse, and his memory 
of the man to whom he owed his birth took on a fairer hue. 

The following morning he took Manley Clavering in pri- 
vate, and with almost ominous gravity said to him : 

“ Thus far you have been considerate enough to follow 
my instructions. I can imagine that it has not been an 
easy or agreeable duty, knowing that your deception has 
been discovered. My father is dead and buried. You 
still are generally believed to be his son. For the present, 
I wish this to continue. I desire to leave town for a day or 
two. Will you give me your word that, on my return, I 
shall find affairs here exactly as I leave them ? ” 


340 


UNION DOWN 


Manley raised his downcast eyes and asked with melan- 
choly sadness : 

“ Is my word worth anything to you ? ” 

“ It is the only pledge I now require,” said Sedgewick, 
quietly. 

“Then you have it.” 

“And you personally will await my return?” 

“Why not? I now care little what befalls me. I have 
been a — yes, a knave ; but I am not a coward. I will be 
here when you return.” 

“ I thank you for this much,” rejoined Sedgewick, gravely. 
“ But little has passed between us save in the coihpany of 
others, and I am not yet prepared to listen to you and to 
deal with you. I shall return by Thursday at the farthest.” 

He left him without offering his hand, and after a few 
affectionate words to Clara he departed from the house, in 
which he chiefly had dwelt for more than a week. Going 
out of his way to briefly meet Margaret Dawson, that she 
should by no mischance pervert his intentions, he then 
repaired to the Wiseacre dwelling. 

He found the head of the house engaged in an occupa- 
tion of late sadly neglected — Mr. Wiseacre was reading. 
He did not look up, even, when Sedgewick strode into the 
room, where he was seated in blissful solitude with his 
book. But the latter had little time to spare, and he said 
quite abruptly : 

“I am going to Boston, Mr. Wiseacre, within thirty min- 
utes. What shall I say from you to your people? ” 

The tunnel-holes instantly diverged ; their absorptive 
expression gave way to that of joyous welcome; and a smile 
of profound and perfect happiness glowed from Mr. Wise- 
acre’s fair and fleshy visage. 

“Your hands, my dear Sedgewick! ” he cried, with a burst 
of feeling, casting away the book and extending his own 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 


341 


without rising. “ Both your hands, my loved and honored 
friend ! I have just heard from my wife — my beloved bet- 
ter-half ! My child is herself again. The tender flower 
begins to lift its drooping head. The grip of the fell de- 
stroyer is broken. The sun begins to disperse the gathered 
mists, and here — here in my flooding, swelling, bursting 
heart, I feel that the heavens will soon resume their ceru- 
lean hue. Ah, Sedgewick, Sedgewick; my dear Sedgewick! 
what do we not owe to you ! ” 

“You owe me absolutely nothing,” quickly answered 
Sedgewick, both of' whose hands were still being steadily 
shaken and fondled by the man in the chair, from whose 
little eyes the gathering tears of gratitude and happiness 
began to flow. “Not one thing, I assure you. I am very 
glad to hear such news of Naomi.” 

Mr. Wiseacre vented a prodigious sob. 

“ But it has been, my dear Sedgewick —it has been your 
province to wisely blind the public eye, and to preclude that 
embarrassment which might otherwise have saddened the 
joy of her return,” he blurted, with childlike emotion. “ My 
daughter knows of this, my dearest friend, and she sends 
her grateful appreciation to Mr. Sedgewick ! ” 

Whether this latter were indeed a fact, Sedgewick never 
knew ; but the effect was the same. A surge of happiness 
set his heart swelling, and he laughed deeply, gladly — the 
first time in many days. 

“ That makes me very happy,” said he, simply. 

“And I — I, too, my dear Sedgewick, love you like a 
son,” cried this worthy father of many marriageable girls. 

“And perhaps would not be averse to accepting me as 
such?” queried Sedgewick, impulsively, a glow upon his 
cheeks. . 

Mr. Wiseacre arose with extraordinary celerity, and 
clasped the other to his breast. 


342 


UNION DOWN. 


“ Accept you ! ” cried he, with an indescribable exhibition 
of feeling. “That is not the thing. It is you who must do 
the accepting, not I. I never can repay you; never express 
my gratitude, my love. All I possess is yours, if you will 
have it. Even I myself am yours, my dear Sedgewick — 
body, heart and soul ! ” 

Sedgewick burst out laughing, a laugh of augmented joy 
and emotion. 

“You overcome me,” he replied, disengaging himself from 
Mr. Wiseacre’s warm embrace. “ But, in truth, the accept- 
ance must be of another. Let me go to her. I cannot con- 
tain myself to wait over another train, and I must hasten.” 

“Go! Go, then, my dear Sedgewick,” and Mr. Wiseacre 
raised his arms and self to full height in an imposing atti- 
tude of benediction. “ Go and inform my cherished ones 
that in spirit I am ever with them. Go — and God be with 
you ! ” 

Sedgewick delayed only to get his portmanteau and what 
articles he was likely to require, then hastened to the depot. 
In his impatience, the run to the city seemed interminable; 
but in proper time he again set foot in Boston streets. He 
at once secured a cab and was driven directly to the shop 
of the pawnbroker, 

His sensations during this brief ride ar§ quite beyond 
description. He was returning to Nancy Brandon, with her 
commission for the most part successfully accomplished. 
He was about to rejoin the woman who had brought into 
his life more of happiness and hope — and, too, some of the 
keenest heart-suffering — than he had ever known. In what 
condition was he to find her, and what was to be his recep- 
tion ? He dared not ask himself, dared not contemplate a 
future devoid of that love which now seemed to him so 
much of life ; and it was with trembling heart and hand 
that he opened the pawnbroker’s door. 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 


343 


Nancy Brandon met him well-nigh on the threshold. A 
little cry of pleasurable surprise escaped her, and he took 
both her hands in his greeting. 

“ I am not yet going to try to thank you,” he said at once. 
“Tell me how she is ! ” 

His tone caused her to look at him more closely. There 
were tears standing in his eyes. In an instant she divined 
the truth — that this man loved the woman whom fate had 
permitted her so to befriend. And then it was that Nancy 
Brandon experienced that reward which to her was richer 
far than gold and more priceless than jewels. A tremor 
shook her breast, but she answered modestly: 

“ Much better, Mr. Sedgewick, and out of danger with a 
little care. The fever is entirely passed. I will tell Mrs. 
Wiseacre that you are here.” 

Sedgewick did not stay her. He felt scarcely able to 
speak, and, with swelling breast and a painful choking at the 
throat, he leaned against the low counter where he had 
leaned so doubtfully weeks before, and waited. 

Scarcely a minute had passed when light and hurried 
footsteps caused him to turn, and he caught Leah Wiseacre 
in his arms, so close was she upon him. She threw both 
her arms around his neck and kissed him — the kiss which 
woman bestows when the heart is full beyond containing. 

“We all are so glad that you are here!” she cried, with a 
little sob of joy. “ Mother will be down in just a moment. 
She delays to tidy up the room a little, for Naomi wishes to 
see you.” 

Sedgewick threw back his head in the very agony of sub- 
dued emotion, and walked toward the door. Leah, dear^ 
girl, could not but understand what affected him ; and, 
sensitive creature, like her father, down she came in copious 
tears. Sedgewick pulled himself together, and, turning 
back, laid his hand upon her shoulder. 


344 


UNION DOWN 


“ What is the matter ? ” he asked with brotherly fondness ; 
and all the answer she could make, was : 

“I — I don’t know — unless it is because I am so 
happy 1 ” 

And so Mrs. Wiseacre found them. She had sailed too 
far on the voyage of life, and experienced too many of its 
joys and sorrows, to be affected beyond containing; yet 
even her eyes were glistening when she raised them to 
Orlando Sedgewick’s and tendered her hand. 

“I am going to have my talk with you by and by,” said 
she, after their greeting. “For the present I restrain my 
impatience in consideration of another. You may easily 
imagine whom. Will you go to her at once?” 

“The sooner the better,” said Sedgewick, tremulously. 

Mrs. Wiseacre smiled faintly, and led him through the 
shop and up the narrow stairway to the floor above. At the 
door of Naomi’s chamber she halted, saying softly, ere 
departing as she had come : 

“ I will leave you to speak with her alone. Remember, 
however, that she is not strong as yet, and be considerate.” 

Sedgewick merely bowed. What earthly need of asking 
this man to be considerate of others ! In the dimness of 
the silent hall he stood motionless for several moments, till 
he had gained command over his emotions; then pushed 
open the door and entered into the presence of the woman 
he loved. The eyes with which he viewed her were flooded 
by tears. But he saw her, lying there upon her pillows, 
much as he had seen her once before — a woman with 
pale, earnest face, with tremulous lips and tearful eyes, the 
latter overflowing with tenderest compassion. 

She held out her arms toward him ; and, trembling in 
every fiber, with swelling breast and choking throat, he 
went without a word and knelt by her bed, burying his face 
beside her. 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE . 


345 


It was a long time before either of them spoke — before 
either of them could speak. She knew how deeply he had 
loved and longed, what he had done and what his love was 
eager to do for her ; and she knew how he had suffered for 
the words which trembled now upon her lips. She drew 
him a little nearer, laying her fair, pale hand upon his 
shoulder. 

“Can you forgive me?” she asked softly. “Since I 
awoke, since I came out from the terrible dream which has 
oppressed me, I so have wished for your coming, so have 
longed for the privilege of asking your pardon. You have 
been so kind, so considerate. Can you forgive me ? ” 

“ Forgive you ?” He raised his wet eyes to hers, and his 
low voice was thrilled by that love which hope had fanned 
to a consuming flame within him. “Oh, Naomi, Naomi! 
forgive you what ? ” 

“ I have been so blind, so unwise, so unkind.” 

“No, no ; never unkind! ” 

“At least I have appeared so. I have not meant to be. 
And you — you have been so thoughtful of my welfare, 
so — Oh, how am I ever to repay you!” 

Though her lips were trembling piteously and tears be- 
dewed her pale cheeks, there was that in her voice 
which informed him that doubts were now shadows only 
of the past, that the night was done and the day was 
dawning. 

“Repay me!” cried he, through welling sobs. “Repay 
me ! Do I not owe you my life ? ” 

“Your life?” She looked at him with uncertain eyes for 
a moment, then the memory of that night upon the sea and 
shore arose through the mists which had obscured it. “I 
have forgotten many things — I had forgotten that,” she 
added softly. “It was nothing — let us forget it. Can you 
forget it ? ” 


346 


UNION DOWN 


“May I forget, too, what followed?” asked he, with infin- 
ite tenderness of pleading. 

“ What followed ? ” 

“Do you not remember?” and the swift expression of 
sadness showing in her eyes, told him that she had recalled 
it — that she understood him. 

His voice dropped lower, became a murmur only of affec- 
tionate pathos. 

“If you could only know,” he said slowly; “what you 
have been to me in some of the hardest hours of my life, 
hours when bitterness and vengeful selfishness battled to 
possess me ; if you could know how your perfect gentleness 
has turned me from possible injustice, and from blasting 
forever the hopes and happiness of others — then you might 
know why I feel that you alone can make my life worth the 
living, why I love you so reverently and deeply. Naomi, 
dear Naomi, may I not forget, too, that you repulsed my 
love?” 

She was trembling under the sound of his voice, under 
the spell which had come upon her. The poignant frenzy 
of the past month w r as completely broken by the final yield- 
ing of the physical nature to the strain upon it, and the 
perfect rest which had followed. It now was like the vague 
memories of a painful dream, the waking from which 
brought perfect calm and peace, to which was added now 
the sweetest of all earthly joys. 

“ Repulsed ! ” she murmured, with tremulous sadness. 
“ I have been guilty of many things for which I should be 
sorry, but of none which should bring deeper regret than 
that of having been unkind to you.” 

“And I may hope — may I hope that some day you will 
love me ? love me as I love you ? ” 

“ Some day ! ” Her hand closed unconsciously about his. 
“Will my love, the devotion of a lifetime, all the tenderness 


THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 


347 


which is given to woman to bestow on man — will these 
repay you ? ” 

“ Repay me ! ” 

Sadness sounded in his deeper voice, though his cheeks 
were flushed and he raised himself slightly and placed his 
arm around her. 

“ I do not mean quite that,” she cried quickly, when in 
his eyes she saw the shadow of a fear which still possessed 
him ; and, with a glow rising over the paleness of her face 
— a glow of modest love and maidenly longing — she 
added with a tenderness which served to translate him : 

“I do not mean just that — not repay you ! But if this, 
my devotion, my love, such love as I could give to none 
other in all the world — if this will make you happy — it is 
already yours ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 

Thursday morning, the day which Orlando Sedgewick 
had set as the limit to his absence from the house on the 
bluff, dawned at last. 

To Manley Clavering the time had seemed endless. His 
position had become so changed, the possibility of making 
even partial atonement by a voluntary confession of his 
transgression had been so irretrievably perverted, his sense 
of utter humiliation was so unrnitigable, that the scenes 
which he had grown to love became a torture, and the hour 
was almost welcome when uncertainties should be cast 
aside, and he might receive the open condemnation which 
he felt must be so worthily bestowed. 

Yet a feeling, alien to that which at first would have 
impelled him to decry self in the hope of turning to con- 
tempt and aversion the grief of others, now inspired him. 
One who discloses his sin by voluntary confession, rarely 
attempts vindication ; one accused and discovered, almost 
invariably. 

It was nearly noon when Clara, coming out on the 
veranda, found him in dejected contemplation of the bay. 
The expression of resignation in her pale face saddened 
quickly when she saw him, and, obeying the impulse of her 
gentle and sympathetic nature, she went at once to sit on 
the arm of his chair, and place her hand about his neck. 

“Poor dear brother,” she murmured fondly. “Let me 
348 


340 


WHAT MAM WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 

help you bear your sorrow. Do not steal away to grieve 
alone.” 

Her tenderness, her faith in him, the thought of what he 
felt he had hopelessly lost, were more than he could calmly 
endure. He turned aside his head and gave way to bitter 
weeping. 

Clara dropped to her knees, and, with tears dimming her 
own eyes, clasped her arms lovingly around him — as, with 
all innocence and affection, she had clasped the aged form 
of Randolph Clavering months before, and murmured her 
hopes of his son and the love she would cherish for her 
unknown brother. 

Neither of them observed the shadow which suddenly 
had fallen in the sunlight beyond the corner of the house. 
Neither of them saw the man who, seeing and hearing 
them, had paused to silently observe them. Orlando 
Sedgewick had just arrived from Boston. 

“Do not weep like this, Manley,” said Clara, looking up 
with pleading eyes at his averted face. “ It makes me 
doubly sad to feel that you are so. Let me comfort you. 
I know that our affliction is hard to bear; but, Manley, let 
us try to bear it bravely and with dutiful resignation. Let 
us think of dear, dear father as still near us. Let me com- 
fort you. I know how tenderly you loved him, how earn- 
estly you strove to make happy his every day and hour; 
and, Manley, I know — ” 

“Oh, God! God above, have mercy! You do not know 
my grief ! you do not know my grief ! ” 

He had thrown back his head and cried the words aloud 
in the very agony of his heart-breaking remorse — the 
which, indeed, she did not know. Tears were streaming 
down his cheeks, and his sturdy figure was shaken like a reed. 

Orlando Sedgewick continued motionless, his grave eyes 
bent still upon them. 


350 


UNIO N DOWN. 


“I do; I do, Manley dear,” persisted Clara, tenderly. 
“Do not so give way to your sorrow. You will make your- 
self ill, and it pains me beyond telling. If you had not 
always been so loving and kind and gentle to poor dear 
father, you might then have cause for such suffering as — 
Manley! Manley! won’t you please govern yourself ?” 

Poor girl ! she little realized how her words were cutting 
his heart through and through and through. His terrible 
anguish was more than she could calmly witness; she 
bowed her head to his arms and sobbed aloud. 

This alone would have served to check him. He could 
bear anything better than to see her grieve. He choked 
back his tears and bending foward folded his arms around 
her. 

“ Peace, peace, dear,” said he, with all that gentle fond- 
ness of which he really was capable. “I will weep no 
more. I do not mean to make you unhappy, my sister. 
See, I am calm now. Yes, dear, dear Clara; I did love 
him. I never knew how deeply I loved him, or what he had 
become to me, until I saw him dead. Oh, could I but have 
had a few last words with him !” 

“Try to bear it as it is, Manley,” she pleaded softly; for 
he had caught himself back with a half-subdued moan. 
“Let me help you — comfort you. Let my love assuage 
your suffering. I will be all that the tenderest and 
fondest” — 

He stayed these utterances, which he no longer could 
endure, by drawing her closer and hiding her face in his 
breast. 

“ I know what you would be to me, I know how truly 
you love me,” said he, slowly, and with calmness given the 
lie by his white, drawn features. “But you — you, Clara! 
do not know what that love has been to me — what it 
will be to me! Clara, Clara,” he went on, his low voice 


WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 


351 


charged with a pathos that was awful from its very calm- 
ness ; “keep these words in your memory in days to come! 
Your love, your love, dear one, has revealed me to myself. 
If evil shall befall me, if fate shall humble me, if tempta- 
tions assail me, know this, know this, Clara ! ” and his tone 
fell to one of ineffable reverence ; “ the memory of your 
love, of your sweet face — the memory of you, Clara, alone 
will sustain me and keep me in a path from which I have 
thoughtlessly diverged. Oh, that I might” — 

“Manley ! ” she had drawn back a little and was regard- 
ing him with half-affrighted eyes. “Tell me what you 
mean ! Though evil should befall you, I will love you still. 
Our father’s death and your silent suffering constrain me to 
confess that I love you. Manley, Manley, you have spoken 
like this once before. What is it that you are keeping from 
me ? Tell me what you mean. If you have erred in the 
past, I will pardon, I will forgive. A love unequal to 
that were worthless. Tell me, Manley; tell me what you 
mean ! ” 

He avoided her tearful, pleading eyes, and seemed for 
the moment unable to answer. Then he bowed down and 
kissed her — he believed for the last time in his life; and 
his face was like marble in its chilled whiteness. 

“Not now, dear,” he replied calmly. “Only, Clara, 
remember ! And when my word to another has ceased to 
bind me to silence and” — 

He broke off abruptly, for Orlando Sedgewick, with 
grave face and eyes lighted by the strangest of expressions, 
was advancing. 

Manley did not move from his chair, but Clara, quickly 
rising, wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“You find us weeping,” said she, smiling faintly as she 
offered her hand. “You must know that one’s afflictions 
are sometimes hard to bear.” 


352 


UNION DOWN 


“True,” answered Sedgewick ; then gravely to Manle}': 
“ I wish to see you for a few moments in the library.” 

The latter appeared to understand what this presaged, 
for he arose immediately and entered the house. 

“ You will pardon my eavesdropping ? ” asked Sedge- 
wick of Clara, still retaining her hand. “ I overheard what 
passed between you.” 

“ I should be unmindful of your kindness, could I not 
pardon so trivial a fault,” returned Clara, blushing when 
she recalled her late admissions. 

“You have no doubt, then, of the kindness of my 
intentions ? ” 

“ Indeed I have not.” 

“ Do you know, Clara,” he continued gravely ; “ I would 
like to feel that you regard me as something more than a 
friend — say a brother. One loyal to your welfare and 
happiness, and one to whom you would feel inclined to turn 
in an hour of trouble. Would you be averse to accepting 
me as such? ” 

“No, Mr. Sedgewick! I — I have regarded you almost 
as such,” she faltered, looking up at him, with dim eyes. 
“Indeed, it would be hardly proper for me to tell you how 
deeply I am affected by your attentions.” 

“And I by your confidence. Be assured, my sister,” 
added he, with grave fondness ; “ that I never will counsel 
you to any step which I myself would be loth to take. I 
overheard your words to Manley. Clara, were they spoken 
in pity, in sympathy, in condolence ; or is your love indeed 
equal to pardon ? ” 

“Pardon — of Manley?” faltered she, grown quite pale. 

“Yes, if need be,” said Sedgewick, gently; “but no 
greater pardon than I, a man, could bestow.” 

“Can you doubt that it is?” asked she, with an irrepress- 
ible sob, and seeing now to what he had been leading. “ I 


WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 353 

am not blind to what has been said to me of him and by 
him. Oh, Mr. Sedgewick, I cannot think him guilty of any 
great evil. You have not seen him as I have seen him. I 
love him, and what were that love worth which” — 

“ Peace, dear Clara,” he interposed, for he saw that she 
was near breaking down in weeping. “ Remember that a 
brother, with all a brother’s love and care, stands between 
you and evil. Sit here and await my return. I pray to 
God that I have seen clearly. If so, I will, God willing, 
clear the way to your happiness.” 

He was grand in his gentleness, sublime in his simplicity. 
He placed her in the chair which Manley had vacated, then 
turned and left her. When he entered the library, his face 
was pale and almost stern in its. gravity ; for, when he 
thought of Clara Clavering and her love, he feared the 
approaching disclosure. 

Manley Clavering was leaning against the mantel, his 
arms folded across his breast, his eyes bent upon the floor. 
Sedgewick closed the door, drew the curtains a little lower, 
then turned and faced him. 

“The time has finally arrived,” said he, gravely; “when 
you and I must come to an understanding. What have 
you to say in extenuation of your transgression ? ” 

“Very little,” calmly answered Manley, raising his eyes. 
“Very little indeed.” 

“ Speak then, I will hear that little.” 

« You will first excuse me for just a moment.” And 
without awaiting a reply, Manley left the room. 

When he returned he found Sedgewick seated with his 
back to the window. In his hand Manley carried a pack- 
age of papers, which he laid upon the table. The other 
at once recognized it. It was the package which he had 
intrusted to Benjamin Brandon. 

Manley fell back to the mantel, rested an arm upon it, 


354 


UNION DOWN. 


and looked Sedgewick in the face. He was pale, but 
calm ; he was firm, but without bravado. 

“What do you expect me to tell you?” he asked slowly, 
his subdued voice sounding strangely full and mellow on 
the silence of the room. 

“The truth — the whole truth! Tell me who you are, 
what you have been, and why you have committed this 
transgression.” 

“I regret that it cannot be a more pleasing picture,” 
replied Manley, after a moment; “and if my feelings lead 
me to give it here and there a redeeming color, do not 
mistake my motive. I shall not speak in extenuation of my 
sin ; but, in justice to myself, you must know me as I am.” 

“That is precisely what I wish.” 

“You ask me who I am,” said Manley, after another 
brief interval of silence ; and an expression of distress had 
risen over the paleness of his face. “ I would that I could 
tell you ! When I strain the utmost limit of my memory, I 
behold only a vagabond boy, a waif in the city streets, with 
no nearer known relative than an aged dealer in rags; 
one who, from all I ever could discover, knew as little of me 
as I knew of him. I received no care, no education, knew 
little but hardships and blows, until the hand which dealt 
them was stilled forever. Judging only from the age of 
children with whom I came in contact, I was then about ten 
years old. So much for who I am and what I was. With 
one exception, these are the hardest words I have to 
speak.” 

He was trembling now, and his voice began to quiver 
under that resistless intensity of feeling which such an 
interview could not but provoke. 

“ I welcomed a freedom I had never known,” he contin- 
ued quickly ; “ and, although a boy in years, I had the heart 
and courage of a man. I had more, even; I had aspira- 


WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 


355 


tions. When I beheld, with admiring, eyes, the better classes 
of men — men of fine dress, of gentle speech, of refined 
manners — I was vain enough to hope for the day when I 
might be of their order, I was dauntless enough to attempt the 
task which I saw before me. Do not think I speak in ego- 
tism, in pride ! If by a word I could recall one act of my 
life, even though the speaking of that word were to make 
me what I was, I would speak it gladly ! ” 

Sedgewick bit his lips ; there was in Manley Clavering’s 
voice a depth of sadness and remorse which no pen can 
portray. 

“ I pass, with mention only, over years of earnest strug- 
gle, years of study under the most adverse circumstances; 
yet in the face of which my purpose never wavered. I grew 
to early manhood. I acquired friends through whose influ- 
ence my fortunes were gradually improved, and I soon 
became possessed of a small sum of money. I had been 
writing for the press, a vocation in which I won some slight 
success, and having now no fear of greater penury than I 
already had known, I determined to gratify my desire to 
see the world of which I had only read. I left this country 
and went to Europe, and for three years remained in the 
Eastern world. At the end of that time, I was in China.” 

He paused for a moment, and wiped away the moisture 
which had gathered in drops upon his brow ; yet Orlando 
Sedgewick neither moved nor spoke. His silence seemed 
to affect Manley deeply, for he strode impulsively to the 
table in the middle of the room, and, resting a hand upon it, 
gazed almost aggressively at his grave white face. 

“ I have answered two of your questions,” he cried 
impetuously. “ I have answered them because I felt it was 
your due. If this revelation of my past, the obscurity of 
my birth, the ignobility of my early associations, have caused 
you to turn pale and closed your lips, know this ! I am - 


356 


UNION DOWN. 


“ Know this, instead ! ” gently interrupted Sedgewick, 
raising his hand in a dissuasive gesture. “You misjudge 
me and mistake the occasion of my silence. , We do not live 
in a land where birth and blood alone make the man. As 
truly as I hope that my prayer may be answered, I was 
imploring God that the balance of your disclosure might 
reveal as many attributes of true manhood as that portion 
which I have already heard.” 

The gentle rebuke went straight to the intended mark. 
With something very like a swelling sob, Manley Clavering 
fell back and lowered his eyes to the floor. 

“Pardon — I cannot doubt you,” he said humbly. “ For- 
give my impulsiveness ; it is my greatest fault. It was that 
which — which led me into error here. Alas! your prayer 
will not be answered ; I am without excuse.” 

There could be no doubt of this man’s integrity, now ; no 
question of his penitence. As the latter had evinced itself 
in his every act since that scene upon the beach with Naomi, 
so now remorse cried out in his every word and in every 
lineament of his hueless features. 

“I have said but little of myself,” he continued, after a 
moment. “ After this day, it can matter but little to you 
who and what I am. I will answer your last question, which 
is of far more importance.” 

“ Will you not sit ? ” asked Sedgewick, gently. 

“ No; ” and Manley shook his head, a tear dropping from 
his lashes.' “ I prefer to stand. As I said, I was in China, 
and on my way to this country. After paying my passage, 
I had in money something less than a hundred dollars, my 
entire possessions. This comparative poverty did not, how- 
ever, give me the slightest uneasiness. I had become thor- 
oughly cosmopolitan in my tastes, careless of the future, and 
confident of my ability to look out for myself wherever I 
might be, I embarked from Hong Kong in the clipper ship 


WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 


357 


Bounding Wave. I had but one fellow-passenger, a man 
named Brandon. Of him ” — he broke off abruptly, forcing 
down the emotions roused by these painful recollections, and, 
striding to the window, threw it open. Either the heat, or 
the effort he was making to subdue his feelings, seemed 
about to overcome him ; for the last vestige of color had left 
his face, and his skin was as wet as if by dew. 

“ I will not dwell upon Ben Brandon and his condition,” 
he continued, resuming his position. “ Both the latter and 
the man must be known to you already. If I would, I 
could picture in most distressing colors his weeks of 
increasing illness — weeks when he seemed to feel in me an 
only friend in his direful need. I could tell you of days 
and nights when, in pity only of this dying stranger, I 
bestowed on him a brother’s care. If you are the man I 
think you,” and the words burst from Manley Clavering’s 
lips with an almost appalling betrayal of feeling ; “ you will 
do me the justice to believe that mine was then at least a 
disinterested friendship ! This will be an only plea in my 
own behalf ! ” 

Sedgewick merely bowed, and the other’s voice fell to a 
tone of melancholy sadness. 

“Not until the week in which he died, did Brandon 
reveal the burden on his mind, and the duty he desired to 
transfer to me. Then he informed me of yourself, of your 
supposed death, of your charge to him, of your parents’ 
hhtory, and of the purpose which had inspired you. With 
his own hand, that he might make more clear the situation 
and its gravity, he opened the papers prepared from your 
dictation and spread them before me. These, together 
with a letter and some few trinkets for his wife, he 
intrusted to my delivery; and in my arms, with my pledge 
sounding in his dying ears, he breathed his last.” 

Sedgewick seemed about to speak ; but, raising his hands 


358 


UNION DOWN 


in an appealing gesture of silence, Manley Clavering cried 
piteously : 

“Do not interrupt me! not yet — not now! In mercy, 
hear me out! I saw Ben Brandon buried at sea; I alone 
was possessed of the secrets given to his keeping , but not 
until the depths of ocean had received him forever, and my 
recent care and excitement had ceased, did the possibilities 
which the situation offered appeal to my mind. Why could 
I not assume to be the man I thought dead in Hong 
Kong? The novelty of such an assumption pleased me, 
and appealed at once to my love of adventure. Without 
one thought of personal advantage to be derived, with no 
intention of maintaining the deception for more than a brief 
time, I impulsively made my resolution. The fact that 
Brandon’s letter to his wife was half-filled with references 
to you and to his accepted responsibility, necessitated my 
neglecting her for a time — I thought it would be brief at 
the longest ; and as Manley Clavering I successfully intro- 
duced myself beneath this roof.” 

His voice died away in melancholy cadence as the last 
words fell from his trembling lips; and, like one well-nigh 
overcome by the emotions he had striven so hard to govern, 
he turned his back upon Sedgewick and went to the open 
window, that he might feel the cool sea air upon his face. 

The latter continued silent for several moments, his 
brows bent in thought ; then asked gravely : 

“Have you anything more to say?” 

Manley returned to the table and laid his hand upon the 
papers which he had brought into the room. 

“Yes,” he answered, now quite calmly. “Here are the 
papers and all the valuables which were given to my keep- 
ing by Benjamin Brandon. They are just as I received 
them. I beg to place them at your disposal, and I ask but 
one favor at your hands — that whatsoever of them may 


WHAT MAN WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 


359 


belong to that man’s wife, you will permit me, if — if I am 
worthy the trust — to deliver to their owner. I wish to per- 
sonally make what poor apology and reparation lie in my 
power.” 

The tears which were steadily flooding to his eyes 
blinded him to Sedgewick’s emotion. He went on speak- 
ing, choking at times, at times breaking down in sobs ; yet 
all unconscious of his hearer’s struggle to maintain his 
composure, all unconscious that he was making the most 
pathetic and resistless plea for pardon that human lips 
could have uttered. 

“A few words more,” said he; “and I am done. I 
shall not be surprised if you doubt that I had any intention 
of voluntarily disclosing the truth. You must surely won- 
der why, if I have had, I have allowed this deception to 
continue from day to day. I will try to tell you. Before I 
arrived here, I had formed no just conception of this place, 
or of its — its people. I looked to find a simple country 
home — not a mansion. I had no thought of personal gain, 
no intention to defraud. To me the whole affair was but a 
thoughtless adventure, an impulsive jest. May I tell you 
when it ceased to be so? It ceased when I found myself 
in the love and favor of those whom I had wronged. A 
strange life had come*upon me — a life the like of which I 
had never known. What to me had been love, and home, 
and all those sacred associations which make home the 
choicest of man’s blessings ? My home — oh, God ! I 
never before had had a home ! I drifted on from day to 
day in a heaven I had never known. I learned what it was 
to love — and love reverently. I tried many, many times, to 
bring myself to confession ; but pity — pity for those against 
whom I had sinned, closed my lips. The wrong of some 
woman years ago sometimes appealed to me, but my — my 
love for Clara silenced me. I could not for some stranger 


360 


UNION DOWN. 


dispossess her of what I felt should some day be her own. 
I ■ — I — oh, God forgive me ! Let me go to her. Let me 
at her feet confess the truth and receive my just condemna- 
tion — then go back to the world whence I came — and 
to a life no longer worth the living! I — I can endure 
this secret suffering no longer! ” 

He could speak no more. Sobs were choking him and 
tears were streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly covering 
his face with both hands, he swayed to a chair in the corner 
and abandoned himself to his grief. Not one word directly 
expressing the hope of pardon had come from his lips; not 
once, since that painful scene at the death-bed of Randolph 
Clavering, had he asked human forgiveness. Orlando 
Sedgewick had judged him rightly — that he felt that his 
sin was beyond pardon. 

Sedgewick allowed the other’s emotion to partly expend 
itself, then rose to stand behind the chair in which he had 
been seated. During the past few minutes tears had fre- 
quently found their way to his eyes, and more than once he 
had forced down a welling sob of pity ; but now his eyes 
were dry, glowing brightly, and his pale face was transfig- 
ured by the light of that divine spirit about to prompt his 
words. 

“Manley Clavering,” he said slbwly; but before he 
could continue, the man addressed had turned upon him 
with a piteous cry. 

“Don’t! Don’t call me by that name! Call me what you 
will — save that ! ” 

“Peace,” said Sedgewick, deeply; “and listen to what I 
would say; for it is of you that I shall speak. In this 
world of ours, the best of men are not infallible ; and only 
he is righteous who performs his duty as best he sees it. 
I am about to perform the duty which, for many rea- 
sons, appeals most strongly to my sense of manhood, That 


WHAT MAN WILL do for others. 


361 


you have wronged me to some extent, I cannot but feel; yet 
I shall speak no word of condemnation. The effect of the 
deception which you practiced on my father, I can never 
know in this world; and, from what I have observed, I 
believe that you are penitent.” 

Manley rose as if to speak, but no sound issued from his 
tremulous lips. With heaving breast and hands clenched 
by his sides, he stood immovable, his flooded eyes held 
spellbound by the face of the man opposite. 

“If,” continued Sedgewick, his grave, gentle voice never 
wavering; “you have read these papers here, you are 
already familiar with the unfortunate events of a generation 
past. My father is dead. He died a repentant man. It 
is now in my power to make some amends for the past, but 
I would make them wisely. I wish that the veil which time 
has kindly cast about the history of this house, may never 
again be drawn aside, to reveal its sorrows to a curious 
public’s eye. There has been enough of suffering, and 
enough of scandal.” 

“Your wish shall be sacred,” said Manley, by an effort. 
“ You need fear no disclosure by me.” 

“ I shall have no fear, after you have heard me to the 
end,” said Sedgewick, with odd significance. “ I see that 
you feel yourself unworthy. Remember, then, in time to 
come, what this experience has been to you. Let it teach 
you to govern your impulses and to look well into your con- 
templated actions. Be always assured that one kind 
action, the repulse of temptation, the sacrifice of selfish 
interests, will bring you far more happiness than can any 
thoughtless indulgence. I believe all that you have told 
me, and for some reasons I regret your folly; yet in my 
own present happiness I would not be neglectful of the 
happiness of others. You say that I may call you what I 
will. Hear me, then. In consideration of many things 


362 


UNION DOWN 


— of your disinterested kindness to Benjamin Brandon, 
of your solicitude for my father’s comfort, even though 
you deceived him ; in consideration of those circumstances 
which tempted you to folly, and in consideration of one 
who has confided her welfare and happiness to my dis- 
cernment, I wish to bestow upon you something which I 
have not borne since I was a child beneath this roof, and 
shall never bear again — the name of Manley Clavering! 
Here is my hand, sir, and with it my pardon ! ” 

He took a step forward, but the man whom he addressed, 
who till now had been standing like one transmuted to 
stone, reeled as if he had been stricken a blow. A single 
hoarse, incoherent cry broke from him, and, throwing him- 
self into a chair by the table, he bowed his head upon his 
arms and wept like a child. It was the sharpest pang that 
he had ever suffered, for through this man’s goodness he 
saw himself revealed as never before. 

Sedgewick laid a hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Calm yourself,” he said gently. “ I have said that 
there has been enough of suffering. Clara’s happiness 
depends upon your future. My friend, make that future an 
atonement. The name I permit you to retain, I shall 
never miss ; for during my life in China I have borne my 
mother’s name. That of Clavering has been too long iden- 
tified with sin. Let it be your task to redeem it. I have all 
faith in your intentions, all faith in your ultimate success. 
That my wish may be gratified, that the past may not be 
revived, it will be necessary that you retain the name I give 
you. Take it, then, and take my hand.” 

But Manley Clavering, sobbing as if his heart were 
breaking, moaned only : 

“ I cannot ! Oh, God, I cannot ! I am not worthy this ! ” 
“Let me be the judge,” answered Sedgewick, taking him 
by the hand. “ I am not blind to your many noble traits. 


WHAT MAN- WILL DO FOR OTHERS. 363 

Remain here and compose yourself. And when I bring to 
you the woman you love, between whom and evil I would 
scorn to feel myself other than a constant barrier, let me 
find you calm. I am sure that, hereafter, her happiness 
may be safely left to your care. When I return, she will 
know the truth concerning you. Be assured that her par- 
don will not be less freely given than is my own.” 

Then he turned and left him. 

And when, an hour later, Sedgewick led Clara Clavering 
into the room, though her eyes were red and flooded by 
tears, there was gone from her fair, pale face the shadow 
of dread which so long had clouded it. 

Sedgewick softly withdrew, closing the door behind him. 

Clara went at once to Manley Clavering, standing with 
bowed head in the middle of the floor, and laid both her 
hands upon his breast. 

“ I now know what you would have said to me that morn- 
ing,” she whispered softly, tenderly. “That you could rise 
to that, should alone make you worthy of my forgiveness — 
of my unaltered love.” 

A mingled cry and sob surged to his lips. He dropped 
to his knees at her feet, and, burying his face in her hands 
which he had taken, he bestowed on them through tears and 
kisses that surcharge of mingled love and gratitude and re- 
morseful grief, which then and there could find no fitting 
expression in words. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CONCLUSION. 

The little that remains to be told of the fortunes of those 
who have figured in these pages, may be told in few and 
simple words. 

Not for several days, when Clara had for the most part 
recovered from the effects of Manley’s disclosure, were 
those facts revealed, the knowledge of which was to mark 
the dawn of a new era in her life. As the propriety of that 
which already has been depicted was mutually agreed 
upon by Sedgewick and Margaret Dawson, so by them it 
was deemed proper to deceive Clara in no particular; and 
one afternoon the former took her alone and related to her 
the entire history of the past, and brought her in contact 
with her mother. 

May we be vain enough to feel that the character of 
Clara Clavering has been drawn with sufficient clearness, 
to allow us to safely leave to the reader’s imagination those 
sentiments with which the disclosure was received, the ten- 
der pity with which she still remembered the man whom 
she had loved as a father, and the affection with which she 
welcomed into her life the coming of that mother whom 
she had never known. 

On the following day Sedgewick returned to Boston. To 
Nancy Brandon he now imparted all the facts which 
affected her personally, delivered to her the property which 
had been intrusted to Manley, at the same time expressing 

364 


CONCLUSION. 


365 


the latter’s remorse, and his promise to subsequently meet 
her and more fully inform her of the relations which had 
existed between her husband and himself. If Nancy’s 
surprise at what she heard was great; if the relief she 
experienced was great, also; her gratitude was greater far 
than all the rest. 

To his intense joy, Sedgewick found Naomi nearly- 
recovered from her illness. The old color was returning to* 
her charming face, the old-time light to her heavenly eyes, 
and with them, too, a color and a light which to him were 
sweeter far than all else. So nearly well was she, that it 
was decided that they all would return home the following 
day ; and a telegram was forthwith sent to Mr. Wiseacre to- 
inform him of their coming. 

It is not for us to attempt to faithfully picture the parting 
at Nancy Brandon’s humble door. There were tears and 
laughter, and sobs and caresses, and kisses and promises, and 
all, in fact (save the parting itself), that goes to make life 
worth the living; and, too, along with all the rest, there 
arose in joyous accents the piping voice of a precocious 
child — 

“ See ! See, mamma ! See what God has done for my 
poor papa’s friend ! ” 

And what can portray the scene in Marcus Wiseacre’s 
angular dwelling when the loved ones arrived? Not words, 
surely. There were more kisses and caresses, more sobs 
and tears, but they were tears and sobs of joy and gratitude 
and happiness only. 

Simple, tender-hearted Mr. Wiseacre was well-nigh over- 
come'from the very beginning; but not until his active little 
tunnel-holes caught the gleam of the jewel on his daughter’s 
finger, did he collapse entirely under his stress of emotions, 
and for the longest single period in all his life was rendered 
speechless. 


306 


UNION DOWN. 


But it was all over at last. Tears were exhausted and 
caresses .and kissing done. Mr. Wiseacre’s voice returned 
to him, and forthwith resounded deeper and fuller and more 
fluent of words than ever before. Yes; it was all over at 
last — all save that sweet and peaceful calm which may fol- 
low even the bitterest of storms. 

We are loth to again refer, in these last pages, to wrongs 
and restitution and to monetary matters. As Randolph 
Clavering had said — there was enough for all. And so there 
was. And so we leave it. 

The adverse tides in the lives of those among whom we 
have moved so long were set the other way. We would be 
glad, were it for us to picture in detail the future of these 
people — a far happier future than that past which we have 
shown. We would be glad, were it for us to linger with 
them through the weeks which followed, and to listen to 
the many sad and regretful explanations that were made, 
and the gentle pardons given ; all of which in time dispelled 
the last cloud from the azure of their skies. 

We would be glad, were it for us to paint the wedding day 
of Manley Clavering and Clara; to follow him through 
subsequent years and show how faithfully he fulfilled the 
hope and trust reposed in him by Sedgewick. We would 
take you with this happy couple, and with Clara Clavering’s 
mother, through a year abroad ; a year in which the painful 
memories of the past were obscured by the ever adding joys 
of a hopeful present. We would show you a home in the 
suburbs of that cultured city, where first Manley Clavering 
turned his steps into the valley from which he emerged 
a nobler man. We would acquaint you with a man who has 
won distinction in the profession he had chosen and resumed, 
and in whom you scarce would recall the erring and impuls- 
ive person of these pages. And we would try to picture for 
you the cloudless happiness of her whose love had made 


CONCLUSION ; 


307 


him what he grew to be — but, alas! here the pen would 
fail us. 

And for more than all else would we be glad, were it for 
us to follow the fortunes of the inmates of the house on 
the bluff, that house from which error’s pall had been 
removed by final justice. Here, where his father had dwelt 
before him, dwell Orlando Sedgewick and his wife. Here, 
in occasional hours of silent and solitary cogitation, he 
seems to feel that father’s gentle presence, and oftentimes 
through the calm around him seems to hear the murmur of 
a lost voice in words of loving commendation. And here, 
in all the bloom and grace of a womanhood as sweet and 
gentle as that girlhood we have vainly striven to faithfully 
portray, dwells Naomi, shedding along the pathway and 
into the lives of those around and about her a sunshine 
born of the unalloyed happiness within. 

The past is silenced forever. It lives only dimly in the 
memory of a few. And when these few shall have passed 
away to those gone before, all that may remind one of 
wrongs committed and of lives misspent, will be two 
silent mounds of earth in the sacred quietude of a country 
churchyard. 

To this spot, once a year at least, there comes a man. 
To him it is a pilgrimage of penitence. He comes to stand 
with bowed head and swelling heart above the grave of 
Randolph Clavering. He comes to mourn an irrevocable 
deception ; to bQw in sorrow and remorse, and with a heart 
cleaving now to virtue’s ways. But it is well, too, with 
Manley Clavering, despite this quenchless memory of his 
transgression ; through which he was led the better to 
know himself and his duty to the world around him. 

“ So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains 
Of rushing torrents and descending rains, 


338 


UNION DOWN 


Works itself clear, and as it runs, refines; 

Till, by degrees, the floating mirror shines, 
Reflects each flower that on the border grows, 
And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows.” 


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EARTH REVISITED. 


By Byron A. Brooks. A book crowded with interest from cover to cover. 
Price: paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 


For sale by all booksellers. Sent post-paid upon receipt of the price. 

Arena Publishing Company, 

Copley Square, Boston, Mass. 



















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